


I'll make you a believer

by ElisAttack



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Auror Derek, Courtroom Drama, Derek Hale Takes Care of Stiles Stilinski, Fanart, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them AU, Let's pretend the Great Depression didn't happen cause magic, M/M, Magic, Mentions of PTSD, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-World War I, Protective Derek, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-01 06:09:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10915914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElisAttack/pseuds/ElisAttack
Summary: Five times a memory charm is cast, and the one time Derek Hale doesn’t bother.Or the one where Derek's too old to be chasing an unidentified, unregistered wizard around the city.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my second Harry Potter AU, and my first 5+1 fic. It deviates heavily from the plot of Fantastic Beasts, but takes place within the same setting, namely post WW1 prohibition era New York City with magic.
> 
> Any romance that might happen between Derek and Stiles occurs when Stiles is 20 and Derek is 37, if you have a problem with that, don't read.
> 
> Title from [this](https://soundcloud.com/untitledd/personal-yeezus) Personal Yeezus remix cause I kept listening to it on repeat while writing the second chapter.

_1919_

Every afternoon, so long as the sun is shining, Stiles’ mama takes him for stroll through Central Park.  Today, she dresses him in his grey wool coat, making sure he has his mittens and muffler, before gently taking his hand in hers and pulling them out the door.

Stiles loves his mama.  She’s tall and beautiful, with soft brown hair curling behind her ears.  She smells like ripe apples and warm bread and all the good things in Stiles’ world.  During the war, when she worked in the factory, she came home smelling like grease and metal, even then, Stiles still loved her.  

The strange man living with them works in an automobile factory, and he only gets home after it is dark outside, too late and dangerous to walk about the streets with a family.

Besides, John Stilinski has his own problems to deal with.  Stiles can see in in the amber liquid he tips down his throat every night before he goes to sleep, and in the whimpering Stiles hears at night.  Spending time with Stiles and his mama is not high on his list of priorities.  

Stiles still thinks of the man who shares his last name as a stranger, even though it has been a year since he came back from the Great War.  Stiles had been little more than a toddler of five, when he’d left.  Now, at ten years old, he’s practically a man, yet he still has trouble waking up to a stranger with a tired smile and haunted eyes in his kitchen.

At least it gives him more time with his mama.  During the war, she had to work in the factory, while Stiles stayed with his elderly neighbour and her grandchildren.  Now, he has his mama all to himself.  Kind of.  The stranger, whom his mama insists in his father (Stiles still doesn’t believe her), takes up quite a lot of her time too.

His mama swings his arm as they walk, humming a song under her breath.  Stiles listens along, recognizing it as one she sings to him after tucking him into bed.  

Stiles loves the city, staring around at the bustle and commotion as they go.  At the people walking the streets, the Model Ts Mr. John builds honking at them as they go.  He sees the fine ladies as they get closer to the park, with their parasols and little dogs on leashes.  He looks at the gentlemen, handsomely dressed, waistcoats tapered, pocket watch chains glinting in the sunlight.

While they wait for a chance to cross the street, Stiles finds himself standing beside the handsomest gentlemen he has ever seen in his life.  

His black jacket is long to his ankles, and he wears a shiny silken scarf draped over the front of his chest.  His hair is midnight black and slicked from his forehead, not a hint of grey in sight.  A woman with the same black hair stands beside him, wearing—Stiles has to blink a few times in wonder—trousers!  

The man looks much younger than Mr. John, who has scattered grey all amongst the blonde.  A hand is tucked into his pant pocket, and Stiles catches a glimpse of a pouch of black leather, a stick of dark wood poking from the top.  

Stiles wants to look like this man one day, when he too is big and strong.

His eyes wander back up the man’s body to his face.  Hazel green eyes look back at him, a twinkle in their depths.  

Stiles’ blushes furiously at being caught, but the man just winks at him, turning to whisper in his companion’s ear.  She smiles widely at Stiles, teeth white and brilliant.  His mama pulls him across the street, distracting him for a second as he concentrates on jumping down from the curb.  He can’t make a fool of himself in front of such fine people.

When they’re on the other side, walking into the park, Stiles turns back to catch one last glimpse of the dapper couple, but they’ve disappeared into the crowd.  

Stiles swallows down his disappointment.  However, once he hears the quacking of ducks, all thoughts of the couple disappear from his mind.  

Soon, he’s the one excitedly pulling his mama deeper into the park.

***

It’s during one of these trips, a few months later, that Stiles sees the dapper gentleman again.

It’s Sunday, Mr. John’s day off from work.  Usually he sits at home with a book in his lap and doesn’t turn a page for hours.  Today, he’s come out with Stiles and his mama.

Stiles is starting to warm up to Mr. John.  He knows his mama talked to him about Stiles’ distancing, so he tries harder to talk with Stiles whenever they cross paths in the house.  

Mr. John asks after what he’s learning in school.

(“My numbers, Mr. John!”)

Who he plays with in the neighbourhood.

(“Scotty McCall, he’s my bestest friend, Mr. John!”)

What he wants to be when he grows up.

(“A gentleman, Mr. John, with a pocketwatch!”)

After every answer Stiles gives him, a small furrow appears in between Mr. John’s eyebrows, before he nods his head and pats Stiles on the shoulder, saying, “Very good, son.”  

Stiles has come to the conclusion that Mr. John doesn’t much like it when he calls him Mr. John.

Mr. John holds his hand as they walk through the park, Stiles’ mom sits on a nearby bench, talking with one of her friends from the neighbourhood.  Stiles licks at a snow cone, flavoured with brightly coloured red sugar water, trails of red running down his arm in the heat.  Mr. John sighs heavily before kneeling down in front of Stiles, a frustrated but fond look on his face.

“What am I going to do with you, Przemysław?”  Mr. John wipes the stickiness from his arm with his clean kerchief.  Stiles feels a small measure of guilt when the white linen is stained pink, but he figures since Mr. John hardly blows his nose to begin with, what does it matter?

“Stiles,”  he corrects.  When he was seven, Stiles figured out how inconvenient it was to make new friends when he couldn’t even pronounce his own name right, let alone expecting others to do the same.  He goes by Stiles, and has for the last three years.  Usually Mr. John gets it right, but sometimes he slips up.  Stiles cannot blame him, mama says he hit his head pretty hard in the war.

Stiles is just thankful he isn’t like old Mr. Owen who used to drive a hansom cab when he was younger—until a car hit his cab and he was thrown from it.  He’s really forgetful now.  Sometimes he comes up to Stiles and asks him if he’s seen Betsy, his wife, who died years ago.  Stiles feels bad for him, but at least he has his daughter to look after him.  

Others are not so lucky, Stiles knows, he’s seen them.   

Victory medals pinned to their chests, curled up on street corners to avoid the chill, fingering their rainbow patterned ribbons while muttering to themselves.

Stiles knows Mr John has it good—Scotty’s papa didn’t even come back from the war.

“Right, Stiles.”  Mr. John winces a bit at the mistake, and Stiles feels overwhelmingly like he should pat him on the head for trying, but he doesn’t.  They’re not that close, yet.  “Come, son.”  Mr. John stands, and offers his hand to Stiles again.  He takes it.

They’re by the duck pond, his mama with her sketchbook, Mr. John with his pipe, spread out on a blanket at Stiles plays by the water, letting the ducks come up to him to nibble at his fingers.  Stiles laughs delightfully as they honk indignantly when they notice he has no food for them.  

They swim off, tails waggling, when a woman falls from the sky, right into the pond, leaving a trail of smoke behind her.  She makes a rather large splash, and the ducks take off into the sky, startled.

Mr. John jumps to action, pulling his jacket off as he jumps into the pond, swimming over to the still smouldering blonde woman in the center.  Quite a few people gather on the nearby bridge, looking on as Mr. John pulls the woman out of the water.  She’s not moving and looks like she’s frozen in ice.  She isn’t even blinking, but she is clutching a wicker broom, the ends burnt to a crisp.

His mama picks him up and holds him tight to her side, his legs over her hips, even though he’s getting too old and too heavy for her to do so for much longer.  She must be really scared.  Stiles runs his hand through her brown hair in comfort.  He’ll protect her with everything he’s got.

Mr. John lays the blonde woman on the bank, and starts pressing down on her chest with two hands, counting under his breath.  Stiles’ mama has her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide and wet as time stretches on.  

Out of nowhere, the woman blinks, and seems to unfreeze.  She pushes away Mr. John’s hands, and turns on her side, coughing up water.

“Miss,”  Mr. John touches her shoulder, taking the broom from her and putting it aside, “Miss, are you alright?”

“She’s fine.”  

Stiles’ mama turns around.  Stiles blinks when he sees the dapper gentlemen who winked at him a few months back striding towards them.  He has a stick in his hand that he waves at the woman who climbs to her feet.  His eyes move right over Stiles, he obviously doesn’t recognize him.

“Have a little sympathy,”  she says, and suddenly her clothes are dry, “It’s not everyday that one gets hit by a petrification curse in the middle of the sky, only to watch her life fly, quite literally, past her eyes.”

“What is going on?”  Mr, John demands, something like fear in his eyes.

“Not to worry, Sir, everything will be all right, I’m an officer of the law.”  The woman pulls a stick from a pouch around her waist, and as she’s talking to Mr. John, she waves it.  Mr. John’s expression smooths, and he nods mutely.

She turns to the gentleman.  “Please tell me you caught the suspect?”

“Yes.”

She sighs in relief.  “Come on then, let's round up all these no-majs.  All they need to remember is a nice summer’s day, and not me making a fool out of myself.”  She smiles at Stiles, waving her fingers at him.  “Would you look at this cutie.”

Stiles frowns in indignation.  “I’m not cute, I’m nearly a man.”

“Of course you are,”  She says, as the gentleman calls out to all the people in the area, asking that they approach him.  Even Billy Jones walks closer, and Stiles has only ever seen him run from the police.

The gentleman waves his stick.  “ _Obliviate_.”

Stiles’ mama blinks, and starts bouncing him on her hip, turning away from the officers, like they aren’t even there anymore.

“Oh my, you’re getting too big for me to carry around, baby.”  She puts him down and takes Mr. John’s arm as they go sit back on the blanket.  Like nothing even happened.

Stiles watches the woman pick up her broom, shaking it with a sour look on her face.  She puts it over her shoulder as she and the gentlemen walk off the path, into the cover of the trees.  

Stiles hears two loud cracks only a few seconds later.

He walks over to his mama.  Climbing into her lap, he asks, “Where did that lady come from?”

His mama tilts her head to the side, a puzzled look on her face.  She pushes his hair off his forehead, her fingertips gentle and loving on his skin.  “What lady, baby?”

***

_Ten years later - 1929_

The first thing Derek does when he arrives at a crime scene is talk to any witnesses—witch, wizard, or no-maj—only after he has done that, does he consult the first auror on the scene.  It’s a system that has worked for him for the last five years.  As the Director of Magical Security, he does not plan on changing it anytime soon.

Not even when Auror Crowe huffs in indignation at being ignored by Derek as he makes a beeline for a few no-majs gathered together by the side.

Mr. Crowe may belong to one the richest wizarding families in New York, but that does not mean Derek has to put up with his posturing.  Even if Derek wasn’t a Hale, wasn’t the second child of Talia Hale—the former and most respected President the Magical Congress of the United States of America had within the last twenty years—he still would have walked right on by him.

Mr. Crowe is a grown man, and this is a crime scene.  He can afford to put his massive ego aside for just one moment.

A scant ten minutes ago, Derek was sitting in his office catching up to his paperwork, when the Magical Exposure meter had sent sirens wailing throughout the whole building.  Derek had rushed through the building, and the second he pushed open the front door, he apparated to the scene of the crime.

There are three healers gathered around a no-maj woman who has her head between her legs, looking rather green.  The smell of vomit and fish drifts by on the wind and Derek makes a face.

“Hello,” Derek greets the group of three no-majs, “I am Mr. Hale,”  he says even though none of those gathered will remember his name in a few minutes.  “Can any of you tell me what happened here?”

All at once, two of the no-majs begin chattering, eyes wide and scared.

Derek holds up his hand, “One at a time, please,”  he asks politely.  It’s always good to be polite.  His mother used to say being rude is the fastest way to get a ticket working in the wand registration office.

“Sardines came out of Mrs. Edward’s nose!  Whole sardines!”  A middle aged man with a large bald spot says.

“This lady had come right up to her as she was sweeping her front steps,” a woman speaks up, a hand clutching her dress, as she points her other at the witch sitting on the curb with her hands tied around her back with rope.  “Just pointed a stick at her, all willy nilly, and the next thing we all know, sardines!  Gushing out!”

Derek grimaces, it sounds like a variant of the bat-bogey hex.  That poor woman.  Laura had once cast it on him when they were children, he still shudders to remember it.

Derek turns to the last of the group, a young man with brown hair.  He doesn’t look as shaken as the others.  Perhaps he didn’t see as much.

“Stilinski was walking right by the gate when it happened,”  the middle aged man says,  “He managed to restrain the lady.”

Or not.

Derek looks closer at the young man, Stilinski.  He wears simple grease stained working clothes, and Derek doesn’t sense any magic in him.  It’s ridiculous that he was able to restrain a witch.  Crowe must have shown up at that exact moment to stop her from retaliating against him.  Derek purses his lips, it seems impossible, but it still makes more sense than thinking a no-maj could stop a witch.

So far, Stilinski hasn’t said a word, but Derek knows he’s paying attention.  He has a look in his eye.  Something like defiance, like he knows what Derek’s thinking and wants to prove him wrong.

Derek shakes off his thoughts.  He’s done here.  He’ll take the witch back to MACUSA and charge her with public disturbance, and endangerment of no-maj life.  Then he’ll take lunch with Laura, and go back to work.  He has so much paperwork to do.

Until then, Derek raises his wand and points it at the no-majs.  There’s a sly smile on the young man’s face, and Derek swears he sees him wink.

“ _Obliviate_.”

***

 _Mr. Hale_.  Stiles thinks as he walks away from the scene, heading to work.  He finally knows the man’s name.

Stiles smiles, remember the dapper gentleman from his childhood.  How he has changed from what he remembers.  Grey streaks through his hair now, and wrinkles sit at the corners of his eyes.  He must be in his late thirties, older, but just as handsome.

“Mr. Hale.”  Stiles rolls the name on his tongue.  He hopes to see him again soon.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles is crouched in front of the chassis of a Model-T, ratcheting in a bolt when he hears a bone chilling scream coming from the other end of the assembly line.  He meets the eye of the other man working on the car, Lahey.  There's something unspoken in both their eyes.  Factories are very dangerous places, and whomever let out that scream, they likely won't be able to shake off whatever injury caused it.

They both toss down their tools, jogging towards the source of the cry.

What they find has Lahey gasping in horror.

A man lies on the ground, pinned to the assembly line tracks by a heavy cast iron engine.  The pulley chain must have snapped its links, dropping the metal on him.  

He’s groaning in pain, and Stiles crouches by his head.  He rests a hand on the man’s chest offering some comforting words that he knows are going in one ear and out the other.

Worst case scenario, the man’s leg is crushed.  Best, it’s only broken.

Stiles hopes for the best.

“What do we do?”  Lahey asks.

“Get the floor manager,”  Stiles tells him solemnly.  They need more men to pick up the engine gently, without aggravating the injury.

Lahey runs off and Stiles sits with the man, listening to his whimpers, until they peter off.  He must have finally passed out from the pain.

Accidents happen everyday in factories, it’s just a casualty of the job.  Equipment breaks and people get hurt, it’s nigh impossible to prevent.  Stiles doesn’t know if it makes him a bad person or not, but he’s just glad it hasn’t yet happened to him, or his father.

His father got him this job when Stiles had just turned sixteen, and had long given up on calling him Mr. John.  It pays alright.  It keeps the food on the table and the lights on, but it isn’t going to help him fulfil his childhood dreams of looking like the gentlemen he used to see in Central Park.  Heck, he’s been saving up for a silver pocket watch for years, but it’ll be years more before he can afford to buy one on his meager salary.

Stiles thinks of Mr. Hale, of how powerful he must be with his magic—if magic is what it is, and not devilish sorcery like the preachers on the street corners make it out to be.  Stiles still doesn’t know why he’s the only one who can remember their encounters.  It has to be a spell of some kind, a spell that he’s resistant to.

Stiles closes his eyes.  If only he had magic.  If he did, he’d be able to pick up this engine without breaking a sweat.  If he had magic, he’d be able to heal this man so it would be like he wasn’t even hurt in the first place.  If only.

“I thought you said it was serious.”

Stiles cracks open his eyes to see the floor manager, a roundly shaped fellow with his hands on his waist, walk up.  He’s looking at Lahey with pursed lips and disapproval in his eyes.

Lahey sputters, as he stares at Stiles in disbelief.  No, he isn’t looking at Stiles.  He’s looking at the man lying unconscious on the ground, an engine sitting benignly by his side, leg whole and uninjured.  In fact, his pant leg where the engine once sat, looks even cleaner than the other one.

The manager shakes his head, pressing a palm to his chest.  “Don’t worry me like this, my heart’s already fighting me as it is.”  He waves his hands.  “Go, go, pick him up, we’ll put him in his office until he wakes up.  He must have had a wild time last night, to be passed out on the floor like this.”

Stiles springs to action and picks up the man under the arms, while Lahey grabs him by the legs.  They walk over to the office.  He can feel Lahey’s eyes digging into his skin, but Stiles resolutely avoids meeting the stare.  He hardly knows what happened, he can’t be expected to explain it to someone else.

After the now snoring man is deposited on the musty sofa in the office.  Stiles quickly walks to the door, hoping to escape onto the floor before Lahey can corner him.

It doesn’t work.  He’s grabbed by the arm, and pulled to the side.

“How’d you do it?”  Lahey asks a little furrow appearing between his brows.

“I don’t- I didn’t-”  Stiles starts shaking his head.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know what I saw, and I saw a man’s leg crushed to little more that soup.  How on earth did you-  can you-”  Lahey cuts himself off, like what he might suggest would seem even crazier than what he saw.  “How?”

“It’s like the manager said, we must have been mistaken.”

Lahey frowns, “I know what I saw.”

“We were mistaken.”  Stiles repeats slowly, shaking off Lahey’s grip.  “Now, I suggest we both get back to work before we get called up on probation.”

Lahey’s mouth opens and closes a few times, before his jaw tightens and he nods his head unwillingly.

“Let’s not speak of this again,”  Stiles says dismissively.

Lahey looks like he wants to argue but in the end, he pushes roughly past Stiles, walking back to their station.  

Stiles knows Lahey doesn’t plan on letting it go.

***

“You seem distracted,”  Laura says.  

“Hmm?”  Derek look up from where he’s magicking a spoon to stir his coffee.  It’s late afternoon and the restaurant is busy.  He probably can’t even count this as lunch anymore.  By the time he had left the scene, the sun was already on its way down.  Thankfully Laura was still in her office when he came to get her.

Plates fly by their table from the kitchen, and the chatter from the tables around them is pronounced.  The smell of garlic and warm bread settles over him, but Derek doesn’t feel even remotely hungry.

He’s too distracted by what he saw in the morning.  

That young man, there’s something about him that tugs at Derek’s instincts.  Something different.  He doesn’t feel magical, but he doesn’t feel no-maj either.  Derek can’t seem to put his finger on it, and until he does, he knows it’s going to bother him to no end.

“Deeerek,”  Laura sing-songs until he looks up at his sister,  “What’s wrong with you today?”

Derek grunts.  “Work.”

Laura rolls her eyes.  “It’s always work for you isn’t it?  You can’t even have a short meal with your big sister without thinking about your cases.”

“If you’re trying to guilt me into doing something for you, Laura, I’m sorry to say that it won’t work.”

Laura chuckles.  “Oh, Der, we both know that if I asked something of you, you’d do everything in your power to make it happen.”  She reaches across the table and pinches his cheek.  “You’re such a good little brother.”

She’s not wrong.  Derek is fiercely protective of his family.  He’d do anything for them.

“Laura,”  Derek warns, swatting away her hand.  “I do not appreciate you treating me like a child in public.  Especially not during a reelection year.  What would the press say about Lydia’s presidential capabilities if they caught you pinching the cheek of her Director?”

Laura snorts.  “I think they would say that you’re both two capable magic users, and that I’m the fool who doesn’t know how to respect her brother.”

Derek sighs, scratching his hand through his hair.  It re-styles itself automatically, the charm he cast on his pomade pushing stray hairs back into place.  He used to only use it during press conferences, but now he uses it whenever he leaves the house.  It helps that he always looks good no matter the occasion.  Looking good means looking intimidating, and intimidating is in the job description.  

He reaches for Laura’s hand and wraps his around it.  She’s been touchy about her position in the magical world since her highfalutin husband decided to divorce her and run away with his secretary.  Everyone in the family, and many outside, saw it coming from a mile away.  Only Laura was oblivious.

She avoids the tabloids like the plague, ever since Witch Weekly published an article comparing her to a blind-worm.  Cora had to spend hours convincing her it wasn’t worth suing the magazine over.  

If he ever sees Laura’s ex-husband in New York again, Derek will hex him to the moon and back, screw the consequences.  He puts on a stern, rule abiding face for the press, but if anyone messes with his family, he will have their hide.

Laura squeezes his hand back.

“Aren’t you going to order anything?”  She asks, thankfully changing the subject before they both become sentimental with emotions.  Looking down at the moving pictures on her menu, she says,  “The pastries look lovely today.”

Derek’s about to shake his head, and claim he had a big lunch, when his pocket lets out a screeching shriek that reverberates through the whole restaurant.  A magicked plate drops to the ground right by the booth, as if the sound whipped the magic right out of it.  A waiter glares at Derek, unimpressed.

Derek reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small Magical Exposure meter.  The sound shuts off the moment he touches it.  He reminds himself to tip extra for the plate, so he doesn’t get banned for life.  He actually likes this restaurant.  

He looks down at the meter face and reads the report.  It’s glowing a bright orange which means an unexplained activity has occured.  He glances up at Laura, who’s leaning so far across the table, her hair dips into Derek’s coffee.  

Derek purses his lips and lifts Laura’s hair out of his drink.  She makes a face and whispers a cleaning charm, while Derek tucks the meter back into his waistcoat pocket.  

“I have to go,”  he says to Laura, pulling out his billfold, he places a couple extra coins on the table.

“What’s going on?”  Laura inquires, face lighting up with curiosity.

But Derek doesn’t answer, he walks to the foyer and apparates to the coordinates on the meter.  He reforms before what looks to be a large warehouse.  Narrowing his eyes at the sign above the locked door, he studies the lettering.  It’s a factory for no-maj automobiles.  

What kind of unexplained magical activity could be going on in there?  Most magical folk avoid the automobile like it’s dragon pox.  According to some, it’s just another way no-majs try to be like them.  Too many witches and wizards dislike no-maj technology.  This dislike keeps him employed.

Derek pulls out his wand, and points to the door whispering, “ _Alohomora_.”  The tumblers shift, and the door slides open.  He waves his wand about casting a wordless disillusionment charm, cloaking himself so it seems like he belongs here.  He doesn’t want to be invisible, that would defeat the purpose.  He just doesn’t want anyone raising the alarm.

Derek steps onto the factory floor.  It’s empty, as far as he can tell, the lights shut off, so the only glow comes from the windows.  The only thing he sees are automobiles in various stages of construction.  With his wand held in front of him, a ball of light floating to help him see, he searches.

His ears catch something, and he turns his head, standing at the ready.  He doesn’t know what’s waiting for him, but he’s damned sure he’s ready for it.  Derek was the top of his class in dueling, but he’s not just good it at, he likes it.  

He loves to feel the blood roaring in the veins, the thrill of the fight.  What it’s like to deflect a spell, then to cast one right after, ears still ringing with power, of what could happen if his shield rises a second too late.  

His thirst for the fight has nearly gotten him killed quite a few times.  He cannot even count on both hands how many times a dark witch or wizard has sent a killing curse his way.  

He loves his profession, but he knows it’s going to get him killed one day.  

He turns the corner and sees a no-maj with curly blonde hair and a wrench in hand, glaring at a chunk of metal lying on the ground.

One day, but not today.

He slides his wand back into his holster, where he can grab it for easy access, and the lumos charm dissipates.  He doesn’t need it in a pinch, he’s skilled in wandless magic, but he’d rather use it.  It focuses his magic, makes his spellwork hit a mark true.

“Excuse me, sir?”  Derek approaches the man, careful not to startle him.  He evidently does a terrible job, because the man jumps a foot in the air.  “Are you alright?”

The man turns to face him, a guilty look on his grease smeared face.  “I wasn’t doing nothing, I swear.”  Derek blinks and the man’s eyes widen.  “I mean-”  The man cuts himself off with a groan.  He wipes his hand over his face, smearing the grease even worse.  “I’m not stealing anything.  It’s just-  uh-  there was an accident on the factory floor today, and I’m checking things over, making sure everything is safe for tomorrow.”

The man is lying.

And to makes matters worse, he is an absolutely terrible liar.  Derek almost feels bad for him.  

There’s no spell he can use that wouldn’t be illegal to compel the man to tell the truth, but there are simple ways to get around the rules.  

He concentrates, wrapping his fingers around the handle of his wand, thinking, _tell me the truth, don’t lie to me_.  

It usually works on no-majs, but it doesn’t often on magic persons.  It’s a weak kind of magic.  Even squibs are able to resist it easily.  Luckily he is approved to administer veritaserum to magic users whom he determines, with discretion, need a little loosening of lips.

“Tell me what happened,”  Derek urges.

Just as expected, the man’s eyes fog over and he nods.

“The chain snapped,”  The man says, pointing to where scattered shards lay, around a length of chain hanging from a pulley.  “And there was a scream.  We ran over as fast as we could.”  The man closes his eyes, while gesturing to the big hunk of metal as if recalling something awful.  “But the engine was already on his leg, there was nothing we could do.”

“Who is we?”  Derek asks.

“Me and Stilinski.  We were assigned to work the chassis line today-”

“Wait.”  Derek raises a palm and the man stops talking.  He can barely believe what this man is saying.  “Did you just say _Stilinski_?”

“Yeah, what of it?”  He can see the man is getting irritated with Derek’s interruption, so he gestures for him to continue.  “As I was saying.  Stilinski stayed with him while I went to get the manager, but low and behold, when I get back, the guy’s snoring like a dinosaur.  Stilinski’s sitting all innocent, like nothing happened.  The darn engine’s off to the side like it wasn’t even crushing his leg only a minute ago!”

Derek bites his bottom lip, already running through scenarios in his head.  Maybe he’s no-maj born, but with late developing powers?  Maybe he’s a squib who periodically bursts magic?  Derek doesn’t know, and he won’t know until he asks.

“Do you know where Stilinski lives?”

The man shrugs.  “What do I care about Stilinski.  I’m more worried about me!  Either something’s wrong with my eyes, or there was something funny in the moonshine I was drinking last night.”  

Derek looks at the man, and considers if he might be able to tell him anything further.  Eventually, he decides not, and pulls out his wand.  Pointing it right between the man’s brows, he whispers a memory charm, erasing all memories of anything strange that might have transpired during his shift today.

He walks to the office, and unlocks the doors.  Looking around at the mess of papers and filing cabinets within, he hopes they keep good records of employment, otherwise he’s at a standstill.  

Derek waves his wand and filing cabinet drawers burst open.  With a small gesture, the files flip through, but he can’t seem to find anything that could approximate employee records—nothing about pensions, payment slips, nothing.  If Derek was no-maj police, he would be worried about embezzlement.

Instead, he shuts the drawer with a flick.  He figures he’ll have to do it the old fashioned way.  

There’s a phonebook lying on the desk.  Derek picks it up.

***

Stiles shuts his locker with a click and looks around the room.  He wasn’t able to sleep a wink last night, too worried about what happened, and whether Lahey might end up saying something to the wrong person.  

He has an image in his mind of getting hauled off to the loony bin with his father left at home all alone.  Ever since his mother died, he’s had nightmares about dying in some freak accident, and leaving his father alone.  He’s pretty sure his father has the same nightmares, because every once in awhile, he hugs Stiles a little too hard before he goes to work.

They depend on each other, and Stiles hates to think that he might so easily lose the last family member he has.

He spots Lahey standing in line by the punch clock.  Quickly Stiles buttons up his shirt and snaps his suspenders, walking over.

“Listen, about yesterday...”  Stiles says quietly, approaching Lahey where he’s punching his time card.

“What about yesterday?”  Lahey asks, turning to face Stiles, a genuinely curious look on his face.

Stiles frowns.  He grabs Lahey by the elbow, tugging him to the side.  Lahey gets a irritated look on his face, like he’s only a few seconds away from knocking Stiles out.  “Are you daft?  The engine,”  Stiles whispers lowly.

“I don’t know what you’re going on about, Stilinski,”  Lahey says, yanking his arm out of Stiles’ grip, “But maybe you should get your head checked.”

Stiles stares after him, mouth falling open.  Could it be…?

It must be, it’s the only explanation.  Mr. Hale must have wiped his memories.

Stiles pulls away from Lahey who glares after him.  Walking hurriedly across the factory floor, he settles into his assignment for the day.  He goes through the motions, rolling up a tire, bolting in the nuts, all the while his mind runs a hundred miles a minute.

Is Mr. Hale shadowing him?  

Stiles glances over his shoulder, expecting to see the well-dressed man leaning on a nearby pillar, but he doesn’t.  There’s no one there.  There’s no one out of the ordinary in the building.  

But, if he isn’t following him, how else does Mr. Hale know where Stiles works?  Stiles swallows and bends over his work.

He can’t help but think about those preachers again, spouting their fire and brimstone nonsense.  They say magic is evil, and that witches deserve to be burnt at the stake.  He doesn’t think Mr. Hale is evil.  He definitely doesn’t think anyone should be burnt at the stake.

But then again, what does Stiles know.  He’s only met the man three times before.


	3. Chapter 3

Derek posts aurors outside the homes of the three Stilinski families he looks up in the phonebook.  He would have staked out at least one of the homes himself, but Lydia doesn’t like him doing fieldwork, she prefers him where she wants him—at her side.

Derek never wanted to be a politician, he was trained as an auror.  Yet here he is, sitting at her right hand, wand in hand, arm resting across his knee.  He’s doing what she brought him to this meeting to do—glare and look as menacing as possible.    

Lydia’s addressing the delegation from Australia when he feels a slight vibration from one of three charmed coins in his pocket.  He pulls it out, and checks the issue date, it’s the one for the small brownstone by Central Park owned by John Stilinski.  He stands, catching Lydia’s attention.

Derek tilts his head towards the door, asking to leave.  She nods her head, wordlessly giving him permission.  

Just to make her meeting go even smoother, Derek makes sure to growl at one of the lesser delegates standing at the back as he leaves.  So they know exactly how serious MACUSA is regarding the trade and sale of magical creatures.  

He apparates to where he stationed his auror, and receives his full report.  

A man matching Stilinski’s description was seen leaving the house only a few minutes ago.  Walking towards the docks, and the automobile factory.  

Derek hurries in the direction his auror points him in, hoping to talk to the young man after he leaves the crowded residential area, but before he reaches the factory.  

If Derek is right, and he’s a magical being of some kind, it means he must be resistant to memory charms and persuasion.  He won’t go without a fuss, and Derek isn’t good enough of a multitasker to obliviate witnesses while also chasing down a rogue wizard.

He strides through the streets, a hand resting on his wand as his scarf billows in the high winds coming off the Hudson.  The cold freezes him to his bone, even though he’s wearing a thick woolen coat.  He casts a quick warming charm on himself as he chases after the young man he’s so intent on finding.

His shoes click on the cobblestones, and he sees a figure wearing a newsboy hat and worn pants, hands tucked into a jacket.  He hurries, and waves a finger, shrouding himself in disillusionment.  It won’t work well if Stilinski is as magic as Derek thinks he is, but it will at least muffle his approaching steps.

He stalks his prey.

The wind shifts and a gate rattles near him.  Stilinski looks over his shoulder.  A cat hisses, and suddenly Stilinski isn’t walking anymore.  Derek curses.  

He’s too old for this.  

He takes off after the running man.  They’re running through the warehouse district, offering plenty of places to hide.  It’s best Derek takes care of this as soon as possible before he loses him.

He slides his wand from the holster and shoots a jelly-legs jinx Stilinski’s way.  To Derek’s complete amazement, the jinx bounces off the young man, ricocheting back.  Derek raises a shield which absorbs the jinx.

That was unexpected.

Stilinski’s much faster than him, and Derek’s finding it difficult to keep up.  He turns a corner, and Derek decides to do something risky.  Most wizards don’t tend to keep their lunch the first time they apparate, he imagines Stilinski might do the same.

He pictures Stilinski and feels himself dissolve, like he’s being squeezed through a needle’s eye.  He apparates right at Stilinski’s heels.  

Stilinski’s eyes widen in shock as Derek reaches for him, intending to disapparate with him side-along.  But before Derek can even touch him, Stilinski steps back and throws his arm out, hitting Derek with a fist that rattles his brain in his skull.  Derek didn’t even see it coming.  

He stumbles back, holding his hand to his cheek.  He sees Stilinski looking at him with narrowed eyes, his fist bleeding, cut on Derek’s cheekbone, but he cannot stop the process of disapparation.

Before he dissolves again he hears Stilinski hiss, “Why don’t you put some ice on it, Mr. Hale?”

He appears waist deep in a pile of ice.  A portly man in coveralls with a shovel in hand and a cigarette between his lips stares at him, mouth slowly opening until the cigarette falls onto the ice below.  

Derek looks around.  He’s in a no-maj ice factory that he has never seen before.  

It’s impossible for witches or wizards to apparate somewhere they have never been, unless they have coordinates.  To say that Derek feels like he was hit with a stunning curse would be an understatement.  It’s like Stilinski did much more than conk him on the head when he punched him.

Derek is amazed.  

The amount of power it must take to make someone apparate somewhere they don’t intend to go, especially without touching them or coming side-along with them, is astonishing.  

Derek’s mouth quirks up in a grin.  He feels a burst of laughter fly inadvertently out of his chest, like he just chugged the finest giggle water this side of the Hudson.  He shakes his head in wonder.

“Are you okay, sir?”  The worker asks,  “Where did you fall from?”  The man looks up, but only the ceiling stretches high above them.  His face, if possible, goes even whiter.  

A no-maj always comes to the most reasonable conclusion before they even consider magic.  Derek admires that about them.  It’s self-defence, and it makes what he does so much easier.

Derek pulls out his kerchief and scoops some ice from the pile, tying it into a makeshift ice pack.  He hisses unpleasantly when he presses it to his face, but he might as well take Stilinski’s advice.  He’s not that great at healing charms, especially not ones he casts on himself.

He addresses the worker who’s still gaping at him, “Think you could help me out?”

After Derek thanks the worker for getting him out of the ice, and erases his memory of the incident, he finds the nearest alcove to disapparate.  

He reforms in an alleyway near the Woolworth Building.  The wards stop anyone, even Lydia herself, from apparating directly into the building.

Derek straightens his scarf, empties the ice from his kerchief, and walks through the magical entrance.  

“Director Hale, good afternoon...”  One of his aurors say, trailing off as they notice the bruise that is probably taking up half his face.  He nods his head at them, then walks past.

He takes the elevator to his office, greeting his secretary who’s wearing a nice tie his wife must have picked for him, feeding paper into a typewriter.

“Thank you, Director Hale,”  he says, not looking up, after Derek compliments him, professionally but kindly.  He’s invited Derek out to brunch with his wife countless times, but Derek keeps refusing.  He likes to maintain a good, but distant relationship with his staff.  There’s less chance for lawsuits that way.

He pulls out his wand, waving it at his door, undoing the weaving of wards he placed over his office.  He has many sensitive documents within and can’t have anyone with bad intentions getting their hands on them.

Before he closes the door behind himself, he remembers the bruise on his face.  Sticking his head out the door, he clears his throat.  His secretary looks up at him with a smile that promptly slides off his face.  The bruise must look much worse than it feels.

“I don’t suppose you know any healing spells, Mr. Greene?”

***

Stiles pants, his chest heaving in exertion and fear.  He leans against a brick wall in a dark alleyway, trying to catch his breath before he loses it.

Mr. Hale can manifest himself out of thin air.  Maybe he’s invisible, maybe he’s watching Stiles right this instant?  

Magic’s all fun and games, until someone nearly gets kidnapped.

Stiles shudders and banishes those thoughts from his head, it won’t do him any good to have a fit right now.  He has to go somewhere safe and hide out for a bit, just until things blow over.  He doesn’t know how long that will take, but he knows he’s likely to lose his job if he doesn't go in for his shifts.

Stiles automatically thinks of home, but shakes his head.  He can’t go back home, he can’t bring his father into this mess.  He has to handle this himself.  Steeling his resolve, Stiles walks out of the alley, wrapping his coat tight around himself.

***

Derek knocks on the door of the Stilinski household, a bunch of green carnations in hand.  He purchased them from a nearby florist.  After Derek had explained his problem, Mr. Greene suggested that he show up at the Stilinski house with flowers, a sort of peace offering, to show him that he means no harm.

When the door opens, Derek is braced to see a young man, not an older blonde fellow.  

Derek shakes off the surprise and holds out his free hand.  He assumes this is Stilinski’s father—they have the same jawline.  

“Mr. Stilinski, it’s a pleasure to meet you, I’m Derek Hale.”

The man’s eyes focus in on the flowers he’s carrying before frowning, “Could you be any more obvious, son?”  He waves him in, pulling the door open further, “Get in here before the neighbours see you.”  

Derek walks into the foyer while Stilinski peers outside, turning his head in both directions looking, assumedly, for nosey neighbours.  He shuts the door behind him and turns to Derek, tsking.  

“Carnations, really?  And green ones at that, not subtle at all, son.”  Stilinski says, slight judgement in his tone that makes Derek wonder if Mr. Greene was wrong about flowers.

Derek smiles anyway.  “Is your son home?”

Stilinski folds his arms over his chest.  “Stiles is at work.  He works during the day, unlike some people.”  He looks Derek up and down, sizing him up.  

Derek knows exactly what he looks like—a rich fellow living off his parents’ money.  In some aspects he is exactly that, but he hasn’t depended on his parents financially for years now.  He makes enough money to afford the luxurious clothes he wears on his own, thank you very much.

“I’m on my lunch break,”  Derek flashes his teeth in a grin he knows for a fact endears him to people.

Stilinski purses his lips, before sighing heavily.  Reaching for the flowers, he says,  “Here, let me take them and put them in water, you don’t want them to wilt before Stiles gets home.”

Derek gives them over, and follows Stilinski into the kitchen where he digs around in the cabinet under the sink.  Pulling out a vase covered in dust with water stains on the side, he fills it with water.

With the flowers soaking, Stilinski leads Derek to the sitting room.

“Do you want something to drink?”  He offers, hovering by the door.

“Black tea would be lovely, thanks.”  Derek replies, looking around the room.

Stilinski nods and leaves him alone.  Derek walks over to a rather large bookshelf, pursuing the titles, seeing older books placed among new.  He smiles.  This family likes to read.

He sees no-maj authors he recognizes, as well as those he doesn’t.  Derek pulls out a worn copy of _The Importance of Being Earnest, A Trivial Comedy for Serious People_ by someone named Oscar Wilde.

“You must really love Wilde.”  Derek quickly places the book back in place, turning around to see Stilinski holding a tea tray.  He wears a bemused expression on his face as his eyes shift to the carnations.  Derek feels like he’s missing something, a no-maj inside joke perhaps?

Derek takes the tray from Stilinski, placing it on the small table between two worn brocade armchairs.  Derek wonders if this is where he and his son, Stiles, take tea in the mornings.  He thinks about Stiles, the young man with brown hair, and so much beautiful magic coursing through his veins, it makes Derek want to weep.

He takes a sip of the steaming tea while Stilinski studies him, hands folded in his lap. “So, Mr. Hale, are you and my son lovers, or are you simply courting him?”

Derek sputters, startled.  He coughs, clearing his throat as he places the cup back in the saucer on the table.

Well, that’s new information.

Stilinski raises a brow, waiting for an answer.

Derek may be a fool when it comes to no-maj inside jokes, but he knows exactly how seriously homosexuality is punished in the no-maj world.  An invert is a dangerous thing to be in this day and age.  No-maj society criminalizes and ostracizes inverts, while the wizarding world simply treats them as an inconvenience.  For pure-blood families, punishments are harsher, but it all depends on the family.  For wizards, it’s a matter of passing on the bloodline.  If one is a homosexual, one cannot, ergo why it is frowned up.  

Derek would know.  Luckily, his family is not as dated as other wizarding houses.  They support each other through their marriages to pure-bloods, no-maj borns, and half-bloods alike.  The same was true of Derek when he introduced his first boyfriend to his mother during his third year at Ilvermorny.  She was nothing but supportive back then, and she still is.

Derek gets the sense that Stilinski feels much the same towards his son.

“One could say I’m courting him, in a way,”  Derek admits with a smile.  It isn’t necessarily untrue.

“Good.  That boy needs to meet more people.  It isn’t healthy spending all of one’s time between work and home,”  Stilinski says like he knows from experience.  

Derek nods.

“Speaking of work, what is it that you do, Mr. Hale?”

“Please call me Derek,”  he smiles winningly.

“Derek then.  You must be someone important, if those are the clothes you wear to work,”  Stilinski states, looking over the silk of his waistcoat, and the gold chain keeping his Magical Exposure meter in his pocket.

“I’m in law enforcement.”  Derek answers.

“A desk job then,”  Stilinski concludes.

“You could say that, although I do have much experience in the field.  It’s why I’m qualified for my position.”

Stilinski looks him over, humming, something thoughtful in his eyes.  “You couldn’t have been young enough to avoid the draft.”

Derek picks up the tea, taking a sip.  He remembers Europe.  The mud filled trenches, the screams of his fellow soldiers.  Wishing he was better at healing spells so he could help them.  They needed aid but he was unable to do anything but press cloth to devastating wounds.  All his magic could do was harm others, and protect himself.  

Derek used to stay up late at night, even when he wasn’t on watch, clutching his wand to his chest, praying to some unknown deity that he wouldn’t break or lose it.  He knew he would be dead without it.

“I volunteered,”  he says, swallowing the too hot liquid.  It burns on the way down.

Stilinski nods knowingly, finger caressing the wedding band on his hand.  “So did I.  Sometimes I regret it.  If I didn’t sign on, I would have had four extra years with my wife.”

“Stiles’ mother?”

Stilinski nods.  “She died just two years after I came home.  Stiles was devastated.  He hardly knew me, and insisted on calling me Mr. John for some reason.  We had a tough few years back then, but after some time, we got used to each other.  Finally became a family.”  He smiles lightly at Derek.  “Do you have family, Derek?”

“Two sisters and my mother,”  he says, “I hardly remember my father, he left after Cora was born.”  His father couldn’t handle the stress of his mother’s presidency.  Derek hasn’t seen him since, and good riddance.  He abandoned them as far as Derek’s concerned.

“Me and Claudia were so young when we met, yet we were the only ones left in our families,”  Stilinski says, his tone melancholic, “Claudia lived in an orphanage until she came of age, and my parents died when I was young.  It’s like we were destined for each other.”

Derek frowns into his tea.  Stiles’ mother was an orphan?  

He’s heard stories of pure-blood families giving up squib or half-blood children for adoption.  Maybe that’s why Stiles’ powers are so strong?  He’s not saying no-maj born witches and wizards are weak, not at all.  There’s just something about Stiles’ power that seems ancient, like it belongs to an old and noble wizarding house.

“Did your wife know who her family was?”  He asks delicately, afraid of offending Stilinski.  He likes talking to the older man, and hopefully after he convinces Stiles to join the wizarding world, he might be able to visit him again.  

Thankfully, Stilinski doesn’t seem offended, he just looks thoughtful.  “Their surname was German—Engel, I believe?  I don’t know the circumstances behind her coming into the care of the orphanage, simply that she was given a trust fund.”  He gestures around them.  “We used it to buy the house, the furnishings, and most of the books.  I was going to give whatever’s left to Stiles, but he insists I keep it for emergencies.”

Derek has a vague picture in his mind of the chart of noble wizarding houses of Europe hanging in Lydia’s office, but he cannot seem to recall if Engel is on it.

He finishes his tea, and Stilinski and him talk for a while longer.  Stilinski tells story after story about Stiles, and Derek finds himself hanging onto every detail.  He seemed to have been a precocious child, one interested in discovering as much as he could.  

Derek asks subtly if he noticed anything different about Stiles when he was growing up, but Stilinski just raises his brow, saying, “If you mean my son’s attraction to other men, yes, I was quite aware of that early on.”

Derek leaves the Stilinski household with a name, and a strong desire to find Stiles as soon as possible.  He wants to meet this extraordinary wizard when they’re both on the same footing, when Stiles isn’t either running away from him, or playing the oblivated fool.

***

Stiles drops a coin into the phone’s slot, dialing a number.  The phone rings three times before his father picks up.

“Hello, Stilinski residence, who’s calling?”

“Pops, It’s me.”  Stiles says flexing his fingers.  There’s medical tape wrapped around his knuckles from where he cut himself on Mr. Hale’s face.  He smiles, thinking about that beautiful punch.

“Stiles?”  His father gets a worried tone in his voice, probably wondering why he’s calling him and not just coming home to talk.

“Don’t worry, nothing’s wrong,”  Stiles is quick to reassure his father, even though he’s not sure how true that is.  “I’m calling to let you know I won’t be home tonight.”  Stiles intends to stay at a hotel, then plan out what he wants to do about his situation in the morning.

Stiles’ father chuckles.  “Does that have something to do with the gentlemen that dropped by today?”

A chill runs down Stiles’ spine.  “What gentleman?”

“Derek Hale,” his dad says, his voice jovial,  “He showed up with green carnations.  The man is too obvious, but he’s exactly your type.  You should think about giving him a chance.  You’re too stuck at work, Stiles, you need a little love in your life.”

The short hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and Stiles collapses in the chair he’s sitting in.  

Mr. Hale knows of his sin.  He knows that he’s an invert.  Stiles wonders how he found out.  Can he read minds?  Is that how he knows of Stiles’ darkest desires?  

“Stiles?  Are you alright?”

“Did he do anything else?  Say anything else?”  Stiles asks worriedly.  If Mr. Hale threatened his father, Stiles doesn’t know what he might do.  He just knows it will be something violent and unpredictable.

Something rustles across the line.  “He left his calling card in the flowers.”

“Did he now?”  Stiles says through clenched teeth.  Is Mr. Hale playing him a fool?

“We had a good conversation, he and I,”  his father hums.  “He’s a good man, kind, realistic, and very fashionable.  How did you meet him?”

Stiles chuckles darkly.  He almost wants to say when he was ten and crossing the street with his mother, but he feels like that might open a whole can of worms he doesn’t want to get into with his father, so he just says, “Friend of a friend.”

“You know, he has the strangest way of getting people to open up about themselves.  I talked to him about your mother, Stiles,”  his dad remarks, tone light and airy, the opposite of what Stiles feels, “And I hardly ever open up about her, I don’t know what came over me, but Derek is so easy to talk to.”

Stiles purses his lips, and the metal of the receiver creaks under the pressure of his hand.  He has to hang up soon before he breaks something.  If Mr. Hale spelled his father to talk about his mother, he might end up punching him again.

He already knows what he has to do, it’s time he faced his problems head on.

“Pops?”  Stiles asks.  “What does the calling card say?”

After his father relays the information, Stiles hangs up the call, glaring down at the numbers on the paper.  It’s an phone number.  That’s it, no address, no nothing, just a number.  Stiles already knows he doesn’t plan on calling it.  He doesn’t want to call on Mr. Hale’s terms, he wants to confront him, face to face.

Stiles nudges open the curtain in his hotel room, watching the gas street lamps light up, illuminating the cobblestones, and whoever passes beneath them.  He has a plan.  It’s a stupid plan by all accounts, but it’s a plan regardless.

He closes the curtain, and walks to the bed, pulling his shirt off as he goes.  

It can wait for tomorrow.

***

Derek rests his head on his hand, elbow braced against his desk.  He’s close to falling asleep, but he won’t, not until he finds what he’s looking for.  Mr. Greene left hours ago, cautioning him to get some rest, all the while knowing that Derek won’t.  

His secretary knows about his sleeping habits as good as Erica knows him, and he only met Mr. Greene a few years ago.  He’s known Erica since their first year at Ilvermorny.

Wizarding birth records are as dry as they would seem to be.  He feels his head nod a few times, close to drifting off.  Derek sighs and picks up his wand, a few spells later and he has a steaming cup of coffee in front of him.  Black, just how he likes it.

He wasn’t able to access Lydia’s office and the chart hanging on her wall.  She’s down in Louisiana, dealing with a rougarou smuggling ring.  Derek had to go into the records room, floating out boxes upon boxes of files on German noble houses.

He’s just about to pass out from exhaustion when his eye catches words on the spine of a book—The _Pure-Bloods of Coburg: Engel, Gruner, and Sauer_.  He sits up straight, purpose chasing away all sense of fatigue from his body.  

It’s part of a series of books about the magical history of the kingdom of Coburg, and Derek grabs the volume that caught his attention, quickly flipping through it.

Right at the back, a series of pull out pages display what he’s looking for.

A family tree.

From what Stilinski mentioned about Claudia, Derek figures that she must have been the same age as her husband.  Stilinski looks to be in his late forties, which puts Claudia’s birthdate somewhere in the 1880s.  Derek moves his finger across the long page until he finds what he was looking for.

A baby girl named Claudia, born in 1883, and died that same year.  Derek leans back in his chair.  That girl was likely Claudia Stilinski.  It’s too much of a coincidence for her not to be.

She was probably born a squib.  Her parents, ashamed that they birthed what many pure-blood families consider to be no better than a no-maj, left her in the care of an orphanage.  They did not care enough to keep her, but at least they cared enough to leave her money.  He doesn’t know how she ended up in America, Derek never asked Mr. Stilinski, but she likely left on her own after she came of age.

Derek rests his hands behind his head.  His jacket hangs by the door.  He’s only wearing a white shirt and waistcoat, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, practically casual by his standards.

Sometimes the children of squibs are exceptionally gifted at magic.  It happens, sometimes.  The parent has hardly any magic, or nothing at all, but their children can be born with double the power, or even more.

Claudia’s parents are long dead, according to the family tree, but Derek wonder what they would think if they knew the child of their unwanted child was ten times more powerful than they could have ever dreamed to be.  Derek hopes they’re rolling in their graves.

He runs a hand through his hair, looking at the mess scattered upon his desk.  Derek deserves a break, he’ll clean it up after a short nap, ten minutes or so.  

He closes his eyes.

He dreams of meeting Stiles again, of talking to him, of convincing him to join them.  He dreams of being the one to teach Stiles magic, of getting to see his smiles and the look of wonder in his eye when he first touches his true wand.

Derek sleeps, and he dreams of things an old man like him has no business dreaming about.

***

Stiles pulls his newsboy cap further over his face as he searches through the morning crowd.  

It rained last night, but Stiles slept like a baby.  He’s not worried about what he plans on doing today, on the contrary, he is determined.  Nobody threatens his family, not even a witch.  

The street is muddy and smells of dirt and horse shit as Stiles walks, jumping over dodgy looking puddles as he searches.  

He spots a well dressed man in a fedora.  He has a newspaper in hand with moving pictures, that nobody but he seems to see.  Stiles can’t believe it was that easy.  

He approaches the man, seeing a stick in a holster by his side.  Remembers Mr. Hale pointing a similar stick before spelling him, Stiles firms his resolve.  It must be the source of a witch’s power, if Stiles can get his hands on one of those sticks, he’ll be able to get to Mr. Hale.

Stiles grabs the man by the arm and sends him a smile, “Why, hello there, sir.”

The man looks up, irritated.  “Buzz off, buddy, can’t you tell I’m busy here?”  He shuffles his paper and quirks a brow.

Stiles just grins wider.  “I was wondering if a man like you could introduce me to one Derek Hale?”

The man’s eyes widen a smidge, but Stiles knows he’s got him.  Not only is Mr. Hale a powerful witch, he’s also known among his kind.  Stiles wonders what it means for him that a well known man like that is interested in a lowly factory worker like Stiles.

“What for?”  The man asks suspiciously.

Stiles tilts his head to the side, whispering conspiratorially to the man, so only he can hear, “This may sound bonkers, but _magic_.”

Before Stiles even knows what’s happening the man shoves him into a nearby alley, away from the crowd on the streets.  He pulls out his magic stick.  Pointing it right between Stiles’ eyes, he mutters, “Obliviate.”

Clearly he expects something other than what happens to happen because he’s completely unprepared for Stiles to grab the stick right out of his hands.

“Nice try, bucko, but no dice.”  Stiles grabs the man by the front of his shirt and tosses him to the ground.  He lands in a puddle, dazed.

Stiles holds the stick close to him and thinks of Mr. Hale.  He thinks of greying slicked black hair.  He thinks of expensive fabric, and beautiful clothing.  He thinks of a serious expression, and hazel eyes.

He feels like his chest is being squeezed, it’s almost painful.  Stiles closes his eyes.  The last thing he sees is the man getting off the ground and rushing him.  He gasps, and suddenly the pressure’s gone.

Nausea swells in his stomach, and he bends over, feeling like he’s about to release its contents all over his shoes.  He breathes heavily until it passes.

When he looks up, he sees a very disheveled Mr. Hale in nothing but shirt and waistcoat, staring at him from behind a wooden desk.  He looks like he just woke up.  He has an imprint on his cheek from what Stiles assumes is the folds in his sleeves.  His hair sticks up in all directions, and he wears a flabbergasted expression on his face.

A deafening wailing sounds in the background, but Stiles only has eyes for Mr. Hale.  

He points the stick at him, opens his mouth, closes his mouth, opens it again, then promptly realizes he has absolutely nothing to say.  Stiles curses himself.  He should have practiced a speech or something.  

As it is, the two of them simply stare at each other, the siren wailing.

Mr. Hale clears his throat, and something like a blush creeps up his neck.  “It’s impossible to apparate directly into MACUSA headquarters.”

Stiles raises a brow at him, clearly it isn’t.

“I guess I’m special.”

Mr. Hale’s throat bobs as he swallows.  “I’ll say.”

Stiles is about to say something, when Mr. Hale’s door slams open and a crowd of women and men rush through, magic sticks pointed right at Stiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fyi, green carnations were a popular symbol of homosexuality in Victorian England. Oscar Wilde used to wear them on his suit lapel.
> 
> There won't be an update for the next few days cause I gotta go back to work, but do not fret, I've not given up, I am on a roll!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be adding an epilogue, so there will be 6 chapters instead of 5

“Here comes the cavalry!”  Erica calls out, pointing her wand right at Stiles.  

Derek feels his stomach drop.

“Don’t hurt him!”  He exclaims, standing and bracing his arms against his desk.  Channeling as much authority as he can muster, “Any auror who harms a single hair on this man’s head will answer to me.”

Stiles turns his head and stares at Derek in disbelief.

“ _Petrificus Totalus_.”

Derek watches helplessly as Stiles freezes.  With arms clamped to his side, he falls backward onto the carpet.  

The group of aurors part as Lydia walks through the doorway, tucking her wand into its holster.

“I do believe you answer to me, Derek.”

“Lydia, he’s done nothing wrong,”  Derek hurries around the desk, dropping to his knees before Stiles.  He hovers over him, protecting him for any more spells that might be sent his way.

“He did nothing wrong?”  Lydia repeats, brow rising with every word.  She raises a hand, spreading out three fingers.  “He broke through layers upon layers of wards into MACUSA headquarters.”  She lowers a finger.  “He stole the wand of an auror.”  And another.  “And finally, he must have cast some sort of persuasive spell on you, because when was the last time you defended such a blatant criminal?   _Never_.”

Derek climbs to his feet, crossing his arms over his chest, still standing between his aurors and Stiles.

He looks at those gathered and steels his resolve.  Erica is the first to lower her wand.  Even though she doesn’t holster it.  At that moment, Derek loves her.  They’ve always had each other’s back, and it makes him feel strong knowing she trusts him on this, at least a little.

“What’s come over you, Derek?”  Lydia asks quietly.

“He’s just a boy,”  Derek argues, even though Stiles is anything but.

Lydia laughs harshly.  “No, he is not.”  She points a finger at Stiles lying helplessly and prone.  “That is a man full grown, and you very well know it.”

“He doesn’t know what he’s doing,”  Derek begs.  “His magic has only started manifesting.”

Someone gasps, and he hears Erica whisper, “That’s impossible.”

Lydia shakes her head, saying, “Step aside, Derek.  I swear I won’t hurt him, but don’t make this difficult.”

Derek stares into her eyes, looking for any lie.  He sighs, rolling his shoulders in defeat, letting two aurors push past him.  They waves their wands and suddenly Stiles is floating.  His eyes are still wide and scared, and for a second they meet Derek’s.  He tries to convey reassurance, but he doesn’t know if he succeeds, because Stiles is floating out of his office and all Derek can do is watch helplessly.

Erica steps forward, placing her hand on Derek’s shoulder, she says, “What have you gotten yourself into this time?”

***

Stiles feels like he’s going mad.

He’s curled up on a cot, backed into the corner, shivering as he hears a soft dripping coming from somewhere in his cell.  The sheets covering the bed didn’t give when Stiles tugged at them.  They’re probably spelled to stay so whomever occupies the cell doesn’t hang themselves.  Looking around at the gloomy state of his surroundings, Stiles decides that if anyone spent enough time locked in here, death might be a relief.

He keeps his head down.  There’s a man, a witch, stationed outside his door.  He keeps his hand wrapped around his magic stick—no, what the redheaded woman called a wand—as he side-eyes Stiles through the bars.

He has something harsh in his eyes, and Stiles is scared that if he looks up, and meets their cold depths for too long, the witch will spell him dead.

The sound of shoes echo in the massive room adjacent to the cell, it seems like a repurposed wine cellar or sewer, but Stiles cannot smell anything but mildew.  

He looks up through his lashes and spots Mr. Hale walking towards the cell.  He looks better than he did in his office.  He’s wearing his usual coat, pomade styling his hair proper, but he still has bags under his eyes.  It’s nice to know that magic can’t fix everything.

“Mr. Crowe,”  he greets Stiles’ jailer, “I wish to speak with our guest.”  

Stiles clenches his fingers, wincing in pain when it pulls on the wounds on his knuckles.  If this is how witches treat their guests, Stiles wants no part in it.  He’s tempted to break open his other set of knuckles on Mr. Hale’s face the moment he comes closer, screw the consequences.  The first time felt so good.

The aforementioned Mr. Crowe sneers.  “I have to take your wand.”

Mr. Hale hands it over easily, with a wide smile.  “Be careful not to jinx yourself, I’ve heard it can happen to more inexperienced wizards.  Not that you’re inexperienced, of course.”

Mr. Crowe ignores the obvious insult, gesturing his head at something else Mr. Hale carries in his hand.  “What’ve you got there, Director?”  He asks with blatant disdain, shifting so Stiles cannot see his face from his position, but he can easily imagine the expression on it.

“Dittany,”  Mr. Hale replies holding the vial between forefinger and thumb.  His eyes shoot over to Stiles for one second, but Stiles quickly looks down, not wanting to get caught watching the exchange.

Mr. Crowe scoffs. “The prisoner is fine the way he is.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”  Mr. Hale walks around Mr. Crowe, waiting in front of the cell gate.  “Well?”

Mr. Crowe makes a sour face, but waves his wand.  The gate swings opens.  Mr. Hale steps through, and it closes after him.  The latch snaps shut loud enough that it echos through the room.

It’s just Mr. Hale and him.  Stiles swallows, throat bobbing as he instinctively wraps his arms around his legs, drawing them closer to himself.  Mr. Hale doesn’t approach the bed, he just stands in front of the gate, watching Stiles with an unreadable look in his eyes.

“How are you?”

Stiles doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Mr. Hale, watching as he slowly approaches, like he’s standing in front of a caged animal.  Stiles can understand why he feels that way.  When he was being carried here, he heard people whispering things about him.  Things like “impossible,” “abnormal,” “too much power.”

Stiles doesn’t feel like he has too much power, he feels like he has too little.  Ever since they stuck him in this cage, he’s been trying to picture home and his father, hoping that whatever magic he used to get himself into this place would get him out, but he knows he’s empty of it.  He used too much.  Stiles feels like an engine without oil.  He just needs more juice, then he can get himself out of this sticky situation.

Until then, he has to be careful.

Mr. Hale sits on the far side of the cot, his hands folded in his lap.  The vial holds a greenish liquid, and Stiles wonders if this _dittany_ was what Mr. Hale used to get Stiles’ father to talk about his mother.

“Are you cold?”

Stiles doesn’t answer, but he gives an involuntary shiver.  Mr. Hale frowns, and moves to take off his coat, he folds it and places it on the bed between them.  Stiles stares at it, not understanding.  He’s seen men take off their coats before they get into fights so they do not get blood on them.  Is that Mr. Hale plans on doing?  Is he going to force Stiles to drink the contents of the vial, and if that doesn’t work, is he going to beat the answers he wants out of him?

“Aren’t you going to put it on?”  Mr. Hale asks, and Stiles looks up.  He’s gesturing at the coat.  “I promise it isn’t dirty.”

Stiles looks at the soft wool, he’s so very cold, but still doesn’t pull it towards him.  Mr. Hale sighs, but he doesn’t put it back on, he shifts it to the side as he moves even closer.

“Mr. Stilinski, Stiles, my name is Derek Hale—”

“I know your name,”  Stiles cuts him off.  “My father told me, and you introduced yourself before, don’t you remember?”

“I do, Stiles, but the problem is that you weren’t supposed to.  Remember, that is.”

“Do you witches make a habit of erasing people’s memories?”  Stiles demands, fingernails digging into his palms.  “Or, is it just fun and games for your kind?”

“ _Our_ kind, you’re one of us,”  Mr. Hale corrects, “And I’m not a witch, I’m a wizard, our women are known as witches, although wizard can be used as a gender neutral term.”

“I’m not locked in here for you to teach me grammar, why are you here?”

Mr. Hale holds the bottle up, shaking it lightly.  Stiles recoils violently, and Mr. Hale’s brows dip.  “What’s wrong?”  He asks.

“I won’t be spelled to talk, like you spelled my father.  You can’t make me drink that,”  Stiles hisses.

“Your father— Make—?  Merlin's beard, Stiles, I won’t make you do anything.  This isn’t veritaserum, it’s dittany.”  Mr. Hale seems to realize that what he’s saying makes no sense to Stiles because he bows his head, shaking it lightly.  “I apologize.  Stiles I promise I won’t give you anything that might compel you to talk.  This is a healing potion, it will close the wounds on your knuckles.”

Stiles looks at Mr. Hale.  The last time they met on the streets, Stiles knew he had bruised his face, yet his skin is clear and free of even a yellowing bruise.  “Is that what you used on yourself?”

Mr. Hale shakes his head.  “Dittany is only for open wounds, a healing spell was used on my face.  Several, in fact, you truly did a number on me.”

Stiles cannot help the soft smile that flits over his face.

“Don’t looks too happy about it,”  Mr. Hale says wryly, and the smile drops right from Stiles’ lips.  “Hey, no, I was joking,”  Mr. Hale says, “Don’t be like that, you have a strong right hook, it’s commendable.”       

Stiles swallows the lump in his throat.  “Then what did you use on my father?”

“I don’t know why you think I used any magic on your father, Stiles, but I didn’t.”

Stiles unwraps his arms from around his legs.  Gesturing wildly his voice rises.  “But he—”  Stiles bites his bottom lip, lowering his voice until his next words are barely perceptible.  “He talked to you about my mother.”

Mr. Hale nods his head.  “He did, but I swear to you, he spoke on his own volition.  I did not force him.”

“Why should I believe you?”  Stiles asks suspiciously,  “You could just be saying that in order to get me to trust you.”

“I could,”  Mr. Hale admits, “But I didn’t.  You’ll either have to take my word for it, or don’t, it’s your choice.”  He holds his hand out.  “Let me help heal your wounds, at least.”

Stiles looks into Mr. Hale’s eyes, at the tired lines at their corners, at the bags making him look even older than he probably is.  The silence stretching between them isn’t overbearing, but it’s weighted.  Mr. Hale is giving him a choice, and Stiles can tell that if he said no, if he refused to give him his hand, Mr. Hale will get up and leave Stiles be.

Stiles lifts his hand from his lap, and places it in Mr. Hale’s.  Mr. Hale smiles.

His touch is warm on Stiles’ skin as he peels away the gauze, hissing sympathetically at what he sees.

“No-majs have become so accustomed to hurting for long periods of time, they’re so much stronger than wizard-kind.  We can wish a wound away with a flick of our wand, but no-majs have to suffer through it.”  Mr. Hale uncorks the vial, pulling the dropper out.  “They’re—you’re—so much stronger than I could ever hope to be.”  The green liquid seems to glow.  “This may sting a bit.”

The liquid falls on his wounds, and Stiles makes a face of irritation, but says nothing, even when his wounds start to let off a green smoke.

“See,”  Mr. Hale says, “Not even a peep.”  The wounds begin to scab and heal over in front of Stiles’ eyes.  He looks on in wonder.  “When I was your age, and I was given dittany after a nasty splinching, I was crying and screaming.  My sister made fun of me for weeks.”

Stiles doesn’t know what splinching in, but it sounds awful, and he might just cry as well if it happened to him.

Mr. Hale takes the gauze, and starts wiping away the drying blood, nodding his head when Stiles’ hand is revealed to be as pink and pale as it was before.

“There.  Good as new,”  he says, but he still doesn’t let go of Stiles’ hand.

“How long will I stay here, Mr. Hale?”  Stiles asks tiredly after a long moment.

A pained look comes over Mr. Hale’s face.  “You will be put on trial within the next few days.”

“Trial?”  Stiles questions, “Is it for the wand I took?”

“That, any many more offences.  I’m arguing on your behalf to have you tried as a minor because of your unawareness of the wizarding world, but I doubt it will happen.  MACUSA is strict, and you’ve broken so many rules, Stiles, even if you were completely unaware of what you were doing.”

“That doesn’t seem fair.”

“It isn’t,”  Mr. Hale says sadly, “But it is out of my hands, I have no jurisdiction in court, that is all on Lydia.”

“Will I go to jail?  Who will look after my father?”  He realizes belatedly that he has Mr. Hale’s hand in a death grip, but he cannot find it in himself to let go.

“You won’t go to jail, I won’t let you.”  Mr. Hale says assuredly, patting the top of Stiles’ hand.

“You can’t promise me that.”

“I’ve offered to take responsibility for you, to teach you all I know about magic.  The court won’t be able to judge you a liability if I’m there to make sure you don’t slip up.”

“Why are you doing this?  Why are you being so kind to me?”  The worry gnaws at Stiles.  Worry that Mr. Hale is being kind for selfish reasons, that he only wants something in return.

Mr. Hale holds his gaze, there’s something unreadable, but so very gentle, within their hazel depths.  “It’s the right thing to do.”

***

Erica walks into his office and slams a copy of _The New York Ghost_ on his desk.  “Someone talked to the press.”

Derek picks it up, frowning.  The cover shows a greyscale image of Stiles sitting alone in his cell, fingers playing with the gauze around his knuckles.  It was somehow taken before Derek came into his cell.  

It was taken when Mr. Crowe should have been standing guard.  

The headline stretching in a banner across the front page says, _The Lost Engel Grandson, Locked in MACUSA Dungeon?_

“Great.”  Derek tosses the paper down, rubbing his fingers in circles on his temples.  “Because that’s just what we need.  How’d they find out he was an Engel?”

“Your research was included in the office wide report, everyone in the building knows.”

“Damnit,”  Derek swears.

“Hey, at least they don’t mention _why_ he’s locked in our so called dungeon.  They’re just as unfamiliar with what he is as we are.”

“He’s Stiles.”

“Yes, Derek, he is, but he’s also something else.”  Erica taps a finger against her lip, as though she’s contemplating something.  “I didn’t want to have to ask you this, since you’re so attached to him, but what if he’s an obscurial?”

Derek shakes his head finally.  “He isn’t, he’s too old, and besides he was not abused, his magic was not repressed, it just never emerged until now.”

“That makes sense.” Erica bobs her head. “His magic seems to come and go in spurts,” she adds thoughtfully, “Why else would he not try to escape?”

Derek hums, it makes sense.  Stiles shows an outstanding capability for powerful magic, but it has to come from somewhere.  Perhaps it builds and builds in him, until a stressful event sends it overflowing.

“Come,”  Derek stands, “We need to talk to Lydia, we need to find out who is leaking information to the press,”  Derek says, even though he has a sneaking suspicion about who did it.

Erica walks through the halls with him, and they take an elevator to Lydia’s office.  Her secretary sees them and waves them on through with a whispered “She’s been expecting you.”

The first person Derek sees when he enters Lydia’s office isn’t Lydia at all.  A tall man in dark maroon wizarding robes, fashionable in Europe, and greying brown hair to his shoulders stands in front of Lydia’s desk.  There’s a crease in between her brow that smoothes the moment Derek and Erica enter the room, interrupting whatever troubling conversation she and the man were in the midst of.

The man turns, a smile on his thin lips.  He looks at Derek with eyes like golden felix felicis.  He’s seen eyes like that on only one man before, and he sits in the cells beneath Derek’s feet.

But while the man shares Stiles’ eye colour, he has none of his warmth.  

He offers his hand to Derek, walking forward with a swagger in his step.  “Director Hale,” he begins, speaking in a thick German accent.  “It is lovely to meet you, my name is Baron Dieter Engel.  I hear you were the one who found my nephew.” He looks at Derek with nothing less than disdain, smile twisting into a sneer.  “The Engel family thanks you.  Hopefully we can smooth over this trouble as soon as possible.”  He turns to Lydia, bowing his head lightly.

Lydia acknowledges him with a nod of her head, turning to Derek.  “Lord Engel arrived a few hours ago.  He intends to put forth a formal claim towards Mr. Stilinski.”

Derek’s heart skips a beat.

Engel’s going to take Stiles away.  He’s come here to claim Stiles as part of his family, to dispute the claim Stiles’ own father has on him, and he can do it, because marriages between any variety of wizard-kind, squib or otherwise, and no-majs, regardless if Claudia had not a speck of magic in her, is illegal under MACUSA law.  Stiles is her illegitimate son, and so if the Engels decide to claim him as their own, they can do so, easily.  Taking him away from New York, from his father, from Derek.   

Stiles won’t even have a say in the matter.  He’s an untrained, unidentified wizard, he’s not even a proper citizen.  He has no rights whatsoever under the law Derek has spent the last fifteen years of his life upholding.

Derek nearly steps forward, anger thrumming through his veins, but Erica grabs him by the wrist and digs her fingernails into his soft skin, holding him back.

Engel smiles at the fury Derek knows is apparent on his face.  “I hope we can work well together, Director.  After all, we are both so strongly invested in my nephew’s well being.”

Derek just barely manages to not to hex him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some notes for translation:  
> muggel: German for no-maj/muggle  
> halbblut: German for half-blood
> 
> Also, I made some art! It's embedded later on in the chapter

Stiles faintly remember drifting off after Mr. Crowe is relieved by a kinder, less grave looking man.  He wakes on the cot, the water still dripping.  He doesn’t know if it’s early morning or late evening, or even if it’s high afternoon.

He wonder what his father is thinking.  

His father thinks he was out with Mr. Hale, and now Stiles has not come home.  Does he think Mr. Hale stole him away, murdered him, and dumped his body?  Just another victim of a society that reviles his kind.  Stiles hates to let his mind entertain the possibility.  He wants to call his father and reassure him that everything is alright.  Well, as alright as his current situation is.

He may be locked up, but at least he isn’t dead.

The man that relieved Mr. Crowe stands by the gate, his back to Stiles, steadfastly ignoring him.  At least he doesn’t openly glare and sneer at him, it’s all Stiles wants in a jailer.

He sighs, and turns his head back into the makeshift pillow he made of Mr. Hale’s jacket.  It’s still cold as ever in the cell, but he’s used to the cold, having lived in New York City all his life.  He’d rather be a little chilled than wake up with an unholy crick in his neck from sleeping without a pillow.

His limbs feel numb from stress and exhaustion.  

He thinks of lullabies sung by his mother, songs she learned in the orphanage where she lived most of her childhood.  The words are German, and once upon a time Stiles knew what they meant, but he forgot them once his mother died.  For years after the pestilence claimed her, anything that reminded Stiles of her, pained him to such a degree, he could barely stand it.

He neglected her songs and her stories, but now he remembers them.

Stiles sings lightly, voice rusty and low, hoping not to bother his jailer.  

“You speak German?”

Stiles looks up.  Mr. Hale stands at the gate, handing his wand to Stiles’ jailer.  He has clothes draped over his other arm.

“Barely,”  Stiles answers, sitting up straight.  He knows his hair is a mess, and he’s been wearing the same clothes for however long he’s been locked in here.  He likely smells dreadful.  “I only know a few lullabies.”

Mr. Hale wears a thoughtful expression as the gate swings open, and latches shut after he walks through.  “Your mother taught you?”

“She tried, but I was an easily distracted child.  Then, when the war rolled around, she was always working, never found the time to do it.  I learned most of what I know from what she used to sing during her free moments.”

“Stiles,”  Mr. Hale sits on the edge of the cot, placing the clothes to the side, “Do you know anything about your mother’s birth family?”

Stiles tilts his head, eyes narrowing.  “Why?”

Mr. Hale blinks, looking like he’s contemplating something.

“Whatever it is, I want to know what’s going on out there.  Don’t keep things from me, Mr. Hale, don’t be like the rest of them.”

The words have their intended effect, because Mr. Hale looks at Stiles helplessly, saying, “Your mother’s brother, he’s here.  He wants to take you back with him.  To Germany.”

Stiles chuckles under his breath.  “My mother doesn’t have a brother.”

Mr. Hale shakes his head, “His name is Dieter Engel, he’s a baron of some sorts, and—”

“No,”  Stiles says firmly, “My mother was an orphan, she was abandoned by people who didn’t want her.  The moment they did that to her, they gave up all rights to our family.  I don’t have an uncle.  Dieter Engel can rot in hell for all I care.”

Mr. Hale looks down into his lap, but Stiles can still see a smile on the corner of his lips.  He reaches for the pile of clothes.  Picking them up, he hands them over to Stiles.  “Quick, put these on.”

Stiles frowns, “Don’t I get a shower first?”

“They’re charmed to freshen up the wearer, it’s fine.”

Stiles pulls the clothes into his lap, touching the thick green wool of the jacket, the starched white shirt, the matching waistcoat, trousers, leather belt, and silk tie.  These are the finest clothes he’s ever been allowed to touch, and they’re not even nearly as fine as Mr. Hale’s usual garb.

He tugs his dirty shirt over his head.  Mr. Hale clears his throat, and turns his head away, but Stiles can see the flush creep up his neck.  

It delights him.  If Mr. Hale harbours desire for him, maybe he’ll be much more willing to fight for Stiles in the courtroom.  Dieter Engel may be his uncle, but hell will freeze over before Stiles leaves his father behind to join a family that abandoned his mother.

Whatever magic he had, he doesn’t have anymore.  To keep himself and his father safe, Stiles has to play his cards right.  

He buttons up the new pants and shirt, folding his dirty clothes and placing them to the side.  He loops the belt through, biting his lip when the sound of the leather whooshing against smooth wool draws Mr. Hale’s eyes, before he steadfastly turns back to staring at the wall again.

“Mr. Hale?”  Stiles lifts up his collar and pulls on the tie while Mr. Hale sends a questioning look his way.  He lifts an end of the black silk, waving it in the air, “Help me?”

Mr. Hale swallows, his throat bobbing, and Stiles traces the movement with his eyes as he comes closer.  “What, have you never worn a tie before?”  He asks, jokingly, keeping the mood light.

Stiles doesn’t want the mood to be light.

“I have,”  Stiles replies, but says nothing more, watching Mr. Hale nodding his head like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

Mr. Hale wraps his fingers around the silk, moving it and tying a simple knot.  He keeps his eyes on the fabric, while Stiles looks down at him.  He’s so close.  His greying hair shines through the black strands, and the wrinkles near his brows deepen in concentration.  He’s a beautiful man, Stiles can admit, and a few months ago he would have been giddy at the thought of being so close to one such as Derek Hale.  But, that was then, and this is now.

“I know what you intend to do, Stiles,”  Mr. Hale says, smoothing over the tie with one large hand.  

Stiles waits for him to move back before pulling on the vest, raising a brow, waiting as he buttons it up.     

“Even if your magic returns, don’t try to disapparate.  We’ll be forced to hunt you down if you do.”  Mr. Hale pauses.  “I’ll be forced to do it.  Show some restraint, and please stay.  I have a plan.”

Stiles picks up the dark green jacket.  

He doesn’t meet Mr. Hale’s eyes as he slips it on.      

***

Derek leans his head back on the corridor wall, feeling countless emotions run through him.

He knows Stiles is playing him the fool.  He knows it.  It’s happened countless times before while he interrogated a suspect.  There are always people who think they can flirt their way out of charges.  Derek’s never fallen for it, he isn’t stupid, and he isn’t about to fall for it now.

Derek will help Stiles, not because he asked him to knot his tie for him.  Not because he let Derek get close enough to count the spots on his smooth skin, but because he knows Stiles is a victim of circumstance.  He doesn’t deserve to be forced to spend the rest of his life serving a family he cares nothing for.

Derek has always known Stiles sees him as nothing but a means to an end.  They don’t know each other.  The time they have spent together in that tiny prison cell has been orchestrated by the people Derek works for.  There will and always has been a dynamic of an auror pursuing a criminal between them.

He will be damned before he lets this get to him.  Stiles owes him nothing, he can treat Derek as he pleases.  And if that means he doesn’t trust him—that Stiles will forever keep a discernable distance between them, so be it.

He moves from the wall.  Walking down the corridor, he schools his expression into one of impartiality.  He has a job to do.  

He has treason to reveal.

***

Stiles sits on a lone wooden chair in the middle of a rather large room.  A cool light shines upon him, coming from an unknown source.  All he can hear is the scratching of quills on paper, and the low mutterings of the witches and wizards gathered in the audience.  

The woman with red hair and a stern expression, who Mr. Hale calls Lydia, stands at the top of a flight of stairs, towering over Stiles.  Mr. Hale sits at her side, only a few steps below her, casually, like he and Stiles aren’t the only ones doing so.  He meets Stiles’ gaze, but his expression is one of cool calculation.  Nothing like he was in the cell.

Stiles already feels repentant for attempting to seduce the man, it obviously did not work, and likely lost him his only ally in the process.

“Przemysław Engel,”  Lydia says with perfect pronunciation, “Son of Claudia Engel.  You are brought here today on charges of magical mischief, reckless endangerment of no-maj life, public—”

“It’s Stiles Stilinski,”  he cuts her off unapologetically, “And my mother’s name is Claudia Stilinski.”

She looks irritated at his interruption, pursing her lips.  

Mr. Hale stirs.  Leaning forward he glances over to a middle-aged man at Lydia’s level.  He wears the most ridiculous dressing gown Stiles has ever seen, it looks like a smoking jacket, but longer, stretching to the man’s feet.  The man stares at Stiles, a terrible sneer on his lips.  Stiles has to look away at the malice so plainly visible.

“The marriage between the no-maj John Stilinski and the squib Claudia Engel is invalid under MACUSA law, and so, in this court, we shall refer to your mother by her maiden name.”

“My mother did not marry my father under MACUSA law,”  Stiles says calmly, even though he feels anything but, “They were married in the New York City court, not yours.  As far as I know, we are still in New York City, are we not?”

Lydia smiles faintly, lip quirking.

“Physically yes.”

“Then please, call me by my proper name.”

“Insolent boy—”  The man starts.

“Lord Engel!  I would ask that you do not speak out of turn,”  Lydia turns to the sneering man, who is apparently Stiles’ uncle.  The longer Stiles looks at him, the more similarities he can recognize between his mother and him.  Stiles wishes he could unsee them.

“Madam President, my family doesn’t recognize the marriage between my dear sister Claudia, and the _muggel._ We would have you return custody of the boy to us.”

The whispering and muttering seems to rise twofold at Engel’s statement.

“Lord Engel, he has yet to be judged.”

“He should not even be judged in the first place, the boy is an Engel, that is all that matters.”

Lydia’s eyes narrow, “You may be a pure-blood, you may be noble, but your family is not infallible, Lord Engel, I trust that you will remember that.”

Engel huffs.  Folding his arms over his chest, he steps back.

“Now,”  Lydia turns back to Stiles, “A vote shall be taken regarding your culpability in all that has transpired.  Judges put forth your ballots.”  

Pieces of paper zoom from the crowd, gathering together into a pile in front of Lydia.  She waves her wand, and the papers separate into two piles.  One pile is drastically larger than the other.  Stiles wonders which one condemns him to a prison sentence, and which one condemns him to a life in a foreign country with people he despises on principle alone.  Neither of them mean he will see his father again.  

Something like acceptance settles numbly in his bones.

“A verdict has been reached,”  Lydia says looking at Stiles, “As you are, in theory, no-maj born, and were unaware of the wizarding world up until a few days ago, it has been determined that you cannot be held accountable for your actions.  You need a teacher, a guardian, to provide for you a proper magical education.”

“Can I not go to school for that?”  Stiles asks.  There has to be a magical school Stiles can attend, there is no way all witches and wizards school their children at home.

“You are too old for Ilvermorny, you must be taught to harness your powers by a capable witch or wizard who can take you under their wing, and provide for you a one on one education.”

“And if I do not want that?”

“You have no say in the matter,”  she says bluntly.

“Of course I don’t,”  Stiles mutters under his breath.

“Two wizards have put forth an offer to teach you.  Our very own Director of Magical Security, Derek Hale, and Baron Dieter Engel of Coburg.  Each shall provide a case for custody.  Lord Engel, step forward and present your case.”

Engel saunters down the steps, walking towards Stiles until he stands barely a foot away.  He meets Stiles’ eyes, greed and thirst for power rolling off of him in waves.  

Stiles has no doubt that Engel wants to take him in for purely selfish reasons.  He wonders if wizards have ways to drain power from others, because Stiles knows, if given the chance, Engel would do exactly that to him.

“Madam President, my nephew may be _halbblut_ , but we shall treat him as through the purest of blood flows through his veins,”  Engel starts, and Stiles already knows he’s off to a bad start.  “We have the resources to control him and his power, and we shall gladly take him off your hands.”

“Lord Engel, you speak of your nephew as if he is be little more than an inconvenience for us to deal with.”

“I’m sorry,”  Engel tilts his head to the side, “I thought that was what he was.  He has created so much trouble for your city, we simply wish to gain custody of him, so you no longer have to clean up his messes.”

“How kind of you,”  Lydia says, sarcasm so heavy it drips.

“Of course, after we have done you this _substantial_ favour, all we ask that you erase his father’s memories, as it should be done, for no _muggel_ should know of the wizarding world.”

“Don’t you touch my father!”  Stiles tries to stand, but the magic in the chair holds him down.  He is only able to rise a few inches.  “I will burn this building to the ground before you lay a single finger on him!”

Engel sweeps his hand out towards Stiles which only makes him want to go for his throat, “Case and point, Madam President.  My nephew is dangerous, he must be controlled.”

Stiles feels his hair stand on end, power rising through his body.  It feels like potential.  Like if Stiles really wanted to, he could break through the magic cementing him to the chair.  He looks towards Mr. Hale, fingers twitching to throw out the power, to disappear from these proceedings before they go any further.

Mr. Hale meets his eyes and subtly shakes his head.

Stiles sits back down, but his power still remains.

“Like you control the men who work for you?”  Mr. Hale stands, walking down the steps towards Engel.  Stiles’ uncle watches him with narrowed eyes.  “Oh, you think I do not know?”

“Derek, you must wait your turn—”

“Madam, I think I must not.”  Mr. Hale interrupts, “I am not speaking as one who seeks to mentor Stiles, but as the Director of Magical Security.  The man standing before you, most esteemed ladies and gentlemen, has placed a spy in our government!”

Lydia appears taken aback, and Stiles even hears a loud gasp from those gathered.  Only Engel looks as calm as ever.  Either he is unsurprised, or he is simply a brilliant actor.

“Baseless accusations from a man who wants that which does not belong to him.”  Engel sneers.  “I do wonder why you have set your sights on my nephew.  Perhaps it has to do with the rumours I hear about you—why an eligible bachelor, such as yourself, has yet to take a wife?”

Stiles cringes for Mr. Hale’s sake.  To be accused of inversion in front of his colleges, it will hurt his career irreparably.  

However, Lydia does not even blink at the accusation, shrugging it off like she already knows.  As if it does not even matter.  “Director Hale’s personal business has nothing to do with the accusation he has presented,”  she says, sending a blood-curdling glare Engel’s way.  

The man doesn’t even shrink under it.  

“If you could continue, Director?”

Mr. Hale nods his head in acknowledgement.  He meets Stiles’ eye for a moment that seems to stretch into infinity.  Tearing his eyes away, he walks around the platform Stiles’ chair is placed on.  “It’s simple really,”  he begins, “Lord Engel knew of Stiles before his imprisonment was even leaked to the press.”

“Nonsense,”  Engel dismisses.

“He knew because Josiah Crowe told him so,”  Mr. Hale states, pointing into the crowd, right at Stiles’ first jailer.  The man turns white as a sheet.  “Josiah Crowe took pictures of Stiles in his cell and sold them to the press because Lord Engel told him to, right after he informed Lord Engel of his nephew’s power.”

“Auror Crowe,”  Lydia’s voice booms through the room, “If you would step forward please.”

The man shakingly climbs down, moving to stand in front of Lydia’s steps.  His head is bowed as he looks at this shoes, the very picture of guilt.

“What have you to say about these accusations?”

“I— I didn’t—”

“I cannot hear you, Auror Crowe,”  She speaks and the man seems to shake in his boots.  “I will hold you in contempt if you lie, do not test me.”

“I didn’t do anything,”  the man finally sputters out, but it is obvious to all those gathered that he is lying.

The courtroom sits in silence until Stiles hears a woman say, “Oh, Josiah, what have you done?”

“I have not committed treason!”  Crowe exclaims, looking around the room, begging for anyone to believe him.

Mr. Hale pulls a folder from his suit jacket and holds it up for everyone to see.  His expression is almost apologetic as the folder flies out of his hands towards Lydia.  It opens and papers float in the air, about the room so others can see what they are.  Magical moving images and handwritten letters.  Stiles squints and sees himself in the cell, sitting and twiddling his thumbs.

“The warrant came in just a few hours ago,”  Mr. Hale says.

Stiles wraps his arms around himself, disgusted that someone would take pictures of him while he felt so vulnerable.  A picture floats by, it’s a moving image of him attempting to tug the sheets off the bed.  He looks awful, scared and cold.  Stiles has to turn his head away.

“We found days worth of correspondence between Mr. Crowe and Lord Engel.  As far as we can tell, Mr. Crowe initiated the letters, but Lord Engel urged him on, and never once attempted to stop them.”

Crowe hangs his head, the picture of a man watching his life fall to pieces around him.

Mr. Hale continues, “Power and recognition was promised to Mr. Crowe, Madam President.”    

“In return for what?”

“Information about our prisoner, and specific questions regarding his magic,”  Mr. Hale pauses, swallowing,  “Lord Engel wanted to know if MACUSA had a way to extract magical abilities from a witch or wizard.”

A deafening roar rises from the crowd.  Stiles glances around him, seeing nothing but angry faces and fists waving about.  Apparently the theft of magic is not taken kindly among wizard-kind.

“Order!”  Lydia shouts.  When the courtroom settles down again, she turns a eye on Engel.  “I have no jurisdiction over you, Lord Engel, but from this day forth, you are hereby banned from stepping foot onto MACUSA soil.  If you fail to obey this, you will be arrested and charged.  Have you anything to say for yourself?”

Engel turns to Stiles, ignoring Lydia, ignoring Crowe as he is pulled kicking and screaming from the courtroom.  “Come with me, boy.”

“Are you daft?  Stiles stares at him incredulously.  “I’m not going anywhere with you.  Your family abandoned my mother.  As far as I’m concerned, I have no uncle.”

Engel smiles cruelly.  “You will change your mind.”

“I doubt it.”

Engel is escorted from the room, and Stiles watches him go with pleasure.  Hopefully he never sees him again.

Stiles sits through the rest of the trial, barely paying attention.  He wonders if he’ll be allowed to see his father ever again.  Wonders if they’ll erase his memories of Stiles.  Masochistically, Stiles wonders if that might be better.  Better to not have had a son at all than to have lost one.

If Stiles goes missing, his father will know he’s either dead or being held against his will, and he will not stop trying to find him until he knows what has happened.  That’s just how he is.  

Like father, like son.

“Stiles?”

Stiles looks up.  The courtroom is empty of everyone but Mr. Hale and him.  He looks at Stiles with a worried expression, touching him lightly on the shoulder.

“Are you alright?”

“What’s going to happen now?”  He asks, staring down at his feet, ignoring Mr. Hale’s question.  “Where are you going to take me?”

Mr. Hale pulls him to his feet, a hand still on his shoulder as he adjusts Stiles’ jacket.  Stiles can’t meet his eye, too afraid of what he might find.

 

[Tumblr link to art](http://iamonlydancing.tumblr.com/post/160889744122/art-for-ill-make-you-a-believer-five-times-a)

He wonders what would happen if he tried to escape.

“Don’t,”  Mr. Hale says, as if reading his mind, “I’m taking you home.”

“What?”  Stiles asks, surprised as Mr. Hale pulls him from the courtroom, guiding him with one warm hand placed against the small of his back.  “Don’t you need to teach me magic?”

“I will,”  Mr. Hale says, ignoring the obvious stares they’re getting as they walk into an elevator.  It starts moving the moment Mr. Hale presses a button.

A little while later, and they’re walking out of the MACUSA building, Stiles still not understanding what’s going on.  Mr. Hale pulls him into an alley and folds him into a hug.  

Stiles squeaks, but Mr. Hale only says, “Put your arms around me.”

Stiles does and the air tightens around them.  He squeezes his eyes shut and only blinks them open when he feels Mr. Hale let go of him.  Stiles stumbles, feeling as he did when he used his magic to wish himself into Mr. Hale’s office.

Mr. Hale walks out of the alley, into Stiles’ neighbourhood.  Stiles blinks, rushing to keep up with his long strides.  “Mr. Hale, what’s going on?”

“Call me Derek.”

“Mr. Hale…”

Mr. Hale spins on Stiles, mouth quirking in a grin as he says, “I have to teach you, but that does not mean you cannot live at home while I do it.  And for Merlin’s sake, call me Derek.”

“I cannot,”  Stiles finds himself saying.  “It’s disrespectful.”

Mr. Hale chuckles, “I will happen one day, just you wait and see.”

They walk up to Stiles’ front door.  Mr. Hale knocks, and only a few moments later his father throws the door open wide.  

He seems to register Mr. Hale first, and an overwhelming anger overcomes his expression.  Before Stiles can stop him, his father throws his arm back and whacks Mr. Hale across the face.  Mr. Hale lands in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, his mouth wide open in shock.

Before Stiles knows what’s happening, his father has him wrapped up in a hug.  

Stiles buries his face in his father’s neck, smelling tea and old paper.  He smiles in happiness, gripping him tighter.

“I thought I lost you,”  his father cries, “I thought he did something to you.”  Stiles glances over his shoulder at Mr. Hale who stands sheepishly at the bottom of the steps, a wicked bruise forming on his cheek.  Again.  “Where have you been?”

Stiles chuckles.  “You wouldn’t believe me, even if I told you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter will be around 10k, and it should be up in a little over a week. Until then, thanks for reading, and leave a comment if you want, I love to read them!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut happened, I'd say I'm sorry, but that would be a lie, cause I'm not. I haven't written this level of smut in a year, since Bruises and Hickies, so hopefully it isn't terrible??? 
> 
> If you want to skip the smut, just search for “I felt the same.” then “I knew it, you are trying to get me fired.” and just don't read anything in between.
> 
> Also heed the new warnings.
> 
> All in all, I had tonnes of fun writing this, and it's the first kinda long fic I've actually completed in a while, so yay!
> 
> Enjoy!

_Seven months later - May 1930_

The sound of the floo roars through Derek’s apartment, followed by Stiles calling out from the living room, “Derek, are you home?”

“Where on earth did you put the dried mandrake root?”  Derek asks, his head buried in the ingredient cupboard.  He feels around for the box of herbs he last used barely a week ago, but his hand meets nothing but dust.  He sneezes, and it isn’t because of the dust.  He has a cold, and it’s making him utterly miserable.

“Stiles, I swear to the ether and beyond, if you used it up and forgot to replace it, I’ll—  I’ll—”  The threat is decidedly less threatening when Derek lets out a massive sneeze and doesn’t manage to finish it.

“Derek?”  Stiles asks, peeking his head into the room, a puzzled look on his face, “Are you sick?”

Derek sniffs in answer, feeling as undignified as humanly possible.  He’s only wearing an undershirt.  He tried to put on his usual button up in the morning, but he sweat through it in a minute.  He feels practically naked in front of Stiles’ gaze.

“I didn’t know wizards could get sick?”  Stiles asks, approaching him.

“Haven’t you been sick before?”  Derek asks, leaning heavily against the ingredient cupboard, his head spins and he nearly misses it, but regains his balance at the last moment.

Stiles rolls his eyes.  “Okay, then, mister smart aleck, come here, let’s get you back in bed.”

“I need to brew pepper-up,”  Derek protests, even as Stiles takes him by the hand and pulls him out of the room.  He leads him through Derek’s living room—the fireplace still smouldering from when Stiles flooed in—up the stairs to the corridor beyond where his bedroom lies.

“I’m make some matzo ball soup, It’ll clear up that cold in a jiffy.”  Stiles opens his bedroom door.  

“Pepper-up would be better.  I’ll be able to get into the lesson I have planned.”

Stiles looks at him incredulously before pushing him lightly onto the bed.  Derek goes, even though the sudden transition from vertical to horizontal makes stars float in his vision.

“How did you even let it come to this?  You’re so irresponsible for someone so responsible.”  Stiles lifts his legs, tucking him under the blanket, and Derek blushes bright red.  He doesn’t need Stiles to treat him as if he is little more than a child.  “Stay.”  Stiles holds a finger up to Derek’s nose.  He taps it lightly, then disappears out the door, shutting it after him.

Derek pouts.  He was hoping to brew some pepper-up, then get on with Stiles’ lesson, never mind the steam would be coming out of his ears for a few hours.  They’re supposed to be covering dueling today.  It was one of Derek’s favourite subjects at Ilvermorny, and he was hoping to share it with Stiles.

He only gets to see Stiles a few times a week.  The rest of the time they’re both too busy working.  After Stiles got fired from the automobile factory, Derek took it upon himself to find him a job.  

Now, Stiles works for the Department of Magical Transportation.  The director of said department has always been fascinated with no-maj transportation.  As far as Derek knows, Stiles is working on a system of local magical transportation for those too young, ill, or infirm to ride a broom, apparate, or use a portkey.

Stiles enjoys the work, and whenever Derek brings it up during their weekly dinners, he always speaks fondly of it.

All in all, Stiles is making incredible progress in his studies.  He’s fiercely independent, and he loves to learn.  Derek only has to do give him books, answer any questions that need answering, and sometimes help with spell hand movements and stances.  

Derek usually sits in his corner of the living room doing paperwork, while Stiles practices spellwork.  At the end of each lesson, Derek would fix any holes that needed fixing in the plaster with a wave of his wand, and then they would sit down to eat.

Derek enjoys it, and he loves spending time with Stiles.  His magic hasn’t acted out disastrously in a while.  

The last time, Stiles accidentally transfigured Derek’s cat into a teacup, instead of the apple he was supposed to be practicing on.  Stiles had looked at him with nothing less than absolute despair, then apparated himself to an island in the South China Sea, thinking he had just murdered Derek’s cat.

Derek had to commission a portkey to fetch him.  It had taken hours to get it approved and started a diplomatic nightmare.  Derek had to have a long floo conversation with a very angry Chinese politician, all the while worried that Stiles was drowning in the middle of the sea.  

In the end, Derek at least got a vacation away from New York—albeit a very stressful one—as well as tan out of the ordeal.

Derek can close his eyes and still remember the feeling of a hot sun beating down upon his skin.  He can picture Stiles splashing around in the shallows, wearing nothing but his underthings, woolen clothes discarded on the shore.  He remembers Stiles calling out to join him, a brilliant smile on his face, guilt discarded like his clothes after Derek informed him that he did not in fact murder his cat.  

He remembers a breeze blowing across the sand, and Stiles tripping over his own feet because sand got into his eye.  Stiles had approached him then, stepping so close Derek could count the spots on his face, asking miserably for him to remove whatever was in his eye.  He remembers cradling Stiles’ face in one hand while he inspected the damage, delicately waving his wand and removing the sand.  

He remembers Stiles wrapping his arms around him, sending Derek’s heart beating a mile a minute.  He remembers them being so close together, Derek could hardly tell where he ended and Stiles began.

He remembers wanting to pull Stiles in, to taste the ocean on his lips.  Then, stepping away, and the disappointed look on Stiles’ face.

Derek jerks out of the memory when his cat, whom Stiles has taken to calling Petey, instead of his proper name—Peter—climbs onto the bed, his fluffy tail trailing over Derek’s nose.  Derek lets out a horrifically loud sneeze, and Peter jumps a whole foot in the air, streaking off and diving under the dresser.

He glares out from under the dresser like Derek murdered his mother.  He is half kneazel, but his unintelligent cat half is showing.

Derek snorts.  He got Peter a year ago, and couldn’t help naming him after his uncle.  When the cat yawns, he looks exactly like Uncle Peter rolling his eyes, it is uncanny.

The door opens and Stiles walks in, carrying with him a dinner tray.  Derek sits up, leaning against the fluffed up pillows.  Stiles places the tray over his lap, then moves back, standing awkwardly by the side of the bed.  

Derek pats the sheets beside him, and a smile spreads over Stiles’ face.  Something catches in his throat, and Derek looks down.

“It looks amazing,”  he says.  Derek picks up the spoon and stirs the steaming soup.  There are cream coloured balls floating about in the chicken soup with carrots, celery, and some green herbs.  It smells even better than it looks.

“It’s my father’s recipe, and his mother’s before him.  It’s authentic Polish Ashkenazi.”  Stiles settles on the other side of Derek, dipping the mattress slightly.

Derek breaks a matzo ball in half and takes a sip of soup.  There’s chicken fat in the matzo, as well as a flavour he somewhat recognizes, but cannot put his finger on.  The warmth from the soup slides down his throat and settles in his belly, heating him from the inside out.  

His ears pop and Derek blinks.  His sinuses are no longer blocked, and he feels better than he has in the last few days.  His cold is gone.

Derek looks up at Stiles, who smiles back at him, eyes wide and bright, like he’s just begging to know what Derek thinks about his family recipe.  

He thinks Stiles could bottle it up and sell it for a pretty penny.

“What did you put in it?”  Derek asks, taking another sip, loving how warm it makes him feel.

“A secret ingredient.”  Derek quirks a brow, waiting.  Stiles grins. “Dill.”

Derek frowns, “I don’t keep dill in my pantry.”

“Then what did I—”  Stiles goes white and promptly picks the tray out of Derek’s arms.

“I was enjoying that,”  Derek protests as Stiles places it on his dresser before hurrying out of the room.  He returns barely a minute later, Derek’s box of dried herbs in hand.  It’s the box that usually holds the mandrake root.

So, that’s where he left it.  He must have put it in the kitchen, instead of returning it to the cupboard with the other potion ingredients.

“It was unlabeled,”  Stiles says hurriedly opening the box and pulling out a vial of a dried green herb,  “I can’t believe I used it even when it was unlabeled.  It just looked so much like dill, and I found oregano in the box too, so I assumed it was your spice box.”

“Stiles—”

“Derek, I can’t believe I did that!  I could have killed you!”  Stiles exclaims, voice panicked, looking at Derek like he’s afraid he might drop dead at any second.

“Stiles, I’m fine.”  He holds out his hand, “Give me the vial.”

Stiles hands it over wordlessly, but moisture glitters in his eyes, and Derek hopes he doesn’t start crying.  He hates it when Stiles cries, it makes him feel like he can’t do anything right.

Derek lifts the vial up to the light, and sighs in relief.  It isn’t a poisonous ingredient.  “It’s only gillyweed, you needn't worry.”  Derek feels around his neck.  “Am I growing gills, webbed fingers?”

Stiles shakes his head, chewing on his bottom lip nervously.  Derek takes his hand, patting it lightly in comfort.

“Then you needn't worry,”  he smiles reassuringly, “In fact you should celebrate.  Do you remember exactly what you did?”

Stiles twists the hand Derek’s holding until they’re palm to palm, he tangles their fingers together, and Derek feels heat rise to his jaw.  What is he, a teenager?  Holding hands shouldn’t make him blush anymore.

“I believe so.”

“Good, write it down.”   Derek squeezes their entangled hands, before letting go.  “No matter how insignificant each step may seem to you—whether you stirred the pot clockwise or counter, write it down.  Got that?”

Stiles nods.

“Go on then.”  Derek picks up his wand, and the tray floats back to him, landing in his lap.  He might as well finish it, it would be a shame to waste such a good soup.  

Either Stiles has just cured the common cold with a potion he invented, or his matzo ball soup really is miraculous.  No matter what happened, Derek is so incredibly proud of him.  He watches at Stiles sits at Derek’s writing desk, scribbling into a small leather-bound notebook he pulled from his jacket.  

It’s the notebook Derek gave him when they started their lessons.  It’s full of Derek’s lessons and Stiles’ own observations, and it’s nearly on it’s last pages.  Derek reminds himself to purchase Stiles a second one.

He watches Stiles work, brow furrowed in concentration while Derek finishes the rest of the soup.  

***

Stiles is bent over the hood of an enchanted Model-T, wrench in one hand, wand in the other as he tries to figure out what’s wrong with it.  

It keeps veering off whenever Stiles drives it on the massive course that was set up in the Department of Magical Transportation.  The course is nearly two miles long, and a mile deep, but from the outside it seems like a regular office.   

The car has been enchanted to steer itself wherever the driver wants it to go.  Stiles knows it isn’t just his passable magical knowledge that’s keeping the car from working.  His director had tried to drive it—with Stiles in the passenger seat—and they had nearly crashed through the garage doors where Stiles keeps the other Model-Ts he’s working on.

There’s something wrong with the steering, he knows that for sure, now if he could only figure out what it is.

“Stilinski!”  A voice calls out, and Stiles groans, thumping his head onto his folded arms, before turning around and waiting for the red-faced man to finish storming towards him.

“Mr. Collins, how can I help you?”  He asks the junior minister of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.  Stiles knows for sure he hasn’t done anything.  This time.  

He’ll grit his teeth, listen to the forthcoming lecture, and hopefully Mr. Collins will leave him to his work.

Just because Derek’s teaching him, it doesn’t mean everyone suddenly likes him.  In fact, quite a few ministers have stopped him in the halls, just to loudly advertise that they think MACUSA must be going to hell for hiring a man who hasn’t even attended Ilvermorny.

“There’s a puffskein loose in Times Square, did you have something to do with it, boy?”  He demands, and Stiles is tempted to roll his eyes.  Collins cannot keep blaming him for every little thing that goes wrong.  He’s only messed up a few times, and the last catastrophic thing he’d done was a little overseas apparition.  Even then, Derek assures him that the fallout over that wasn’t even that bad.

“I’ve been here the entire day.”  Stiles turns back to the car, confident in his alibi.  “Ask Liza, she can attest I haven’t even left the room.”  Now that Stiles thinks about it, he should really be getting lunch.  He wonders if Derek is free, they could take it together.

Collins glares, “Like that matters, we all know you can apparate in and out of MACUSA headquarters, don’t play coy with me.”

Stiles frowns.  Slamming the hood shut, he turns and walks away.  If Collins isn’t going to listen to him, there’s no point continuing the conversation.  He doesn’t need to put up with this.  Ever since Derek handed him his papers and he finally became a citizen, he’s constantly told Stiles that he doesn’t have to put up with baseless accusations from anyone.  He can simply walk away, unless they have an arrest warrant.

Stiles eyes Collins’ clenched fists.  He definitely doesn’t have one of those.

“Don’t walk away from me!”  Collins calls after him, his tone dark and awful.  Stiles clutches his wand in his hand, a shield charm on the tip of his tongue.  He may be acting nonchalant about this whole situation, but if Collins snaps and attacks him, he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to control his magic.

He doesn’t want to hurt anyone.

He’s not good with his wand, he’s still learning and only knows the basics, but his wandless magic is advanced, and unfortunately controlled by his emotions.  It has a tendency to lash out at attackers.

Stiles closes his eyes, and counts back from ten, keeping his heart rate calm, even as Collins grabs him by the shoulder.

“Please let go of me,”  Stiles requests calmly, even as his magic calls for him to let go of his control, so it can _make_ Collins leave him be.

“What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing, Collins?”

Stiles opens his eyes, watching Derek stride through the open door, an angry, displeased expression on his face.  He looks like he wants to eat Collins alive for breakfast.  

It’s terrifying, but Stiles has seen what Derek looks like after waking up from a nap.  

His patented glare simply doesn’t have the same effect, once Stiles had seen the central swoop of Derek’s hair sticking up in all directions, a soft sleepy look on his face.  It had made Stiles want to run his fingers through Derek’s hair.  Even now, seeing him so put together, Stiles wants nothing more than to muss him up.

The desire he feels for Derek, makes him blush to the tops of his ears, glad that Liza isn’t in the room to hear his thoughts.  His boss’ secretary is an accomplished legilimens, and Stiles has started learning occlumency—even though it’s much more advanced than anything else he’s learning—just so she doesn’t find out how he feels about Derek.

The thought that someone else might hear his thoughts, and find out what he is, scares him to his bones.

“Director?”  Collins says, startled.  He lets go of Stiles, dropping his hand.  “What are you doing here?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business, Collins,”  Derek says coldly.

“Sir, Stilinski has let loose puffskeins in Times Square—”

“I did not!”  Stiles exclaims.  

“Who else could it be?”  Collins demands.

“Anyone else!  Where on earth would I get my hands on puffskeins in the first place?”  Stiles gestures around him.  “I work with cars!”

Derek pinches his forefinger and thumb against the bridge of his nose, “Collins, get the hell out of my sight, before I tell the head of your department that instead of looking in a reasonable direction, you’ve been harassing my student again.”

“But—”

“How many times has it been that you’ve filed an incorrect report against Stiles?  At this point you’re just wasting department resources.  Don’t make me lodge a formal complaint, because I will, and it will give me so much pleasure.”  Derek snarls, showing his teeth.

Collins purses his lips, before turning on his heel and marching out of the room.  He slams the door behind him loud enough to echo in the cavernous chamber, leaving Derek and Stiles alone.  

He wonders if Derek is here to take him out for lunch.

“Are you alright?”  Derek asks, walking up to Stiles, concern etched on his face.  They stand close enough that Stiles can see the ring of red around his pupils.  “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

Stiles chuckles humorously, scratching at the back of his head.  “If you hadn’t come by, he would have been the one getting hurt.”

Derek looks at him, and silence stretched between them.  “...Stiles.”

Stiles looks down at his feet.  “Yeah, I know, I need to control myself better.”

“That’s not what I was going to say.”  Derek grips him by his chin, lifting his face up so Stiles has to look at him again.  “You know how proud of you I am, right?”  

Derek smiles his quicksilver smile, and the corners of his eyes crinkle.  Stiles feels his heart pound in his chest, and he wonders if Derek can hear it, it’s so damn loud.

Derek’s eyes shine, open and generous, and Stiles feels _lost_.  “You work so hard, and you’re making such amazing progress.  No matter what anyone says about you, I care about you, and I’m so damned proud of you.”  Derek’s finger sears on his skin.  “You’re amazing.”

Stiles kisses him.

He doesn’t know where his bravery comes from, but Derek’s lips feel soft under his.  His breath is warm, his exhale of surprise floods over his face.  Stiles keeps the kiss featherlight and chaste.  It’s not a kiss so much as it is a question.

When Derek grabs him by the shoulders, pushing him back, breaking the kiss almost violently, Stiles figures he has his answer.

“I’m sorry,”  Stiles begins, “I shouldn’t have done that.”

Derek looks at him, expression unreadable.  “Why did you do that?”

Stiles frowns.  What is Derek playing at, is he being deliberately obtuse?  

“Why do people kiss, Derek?”  Stiles says eventually.

Derek pulls away, dropping his hands from Stiles’ shoulders, taking a few steps back like he wants to run away.  Stiles cannot blame him, he would do the same if a woman kissed him out of the blue, and that would be an acceptable thing for her to do.  Stiles’ desire for Derek is anything but acceptable.  He scolds himself for forgetting that.

Just because Derek does not have a wife or a lover, does not mean he wants whatever Stiles is offering.  No matter what Engel suggested in the courtroom.

“You don’t want me,”  Derek says, shaking his head.

“I've been an invert since the day I was born, Derek, I know what I want, and it’s never been a woman.”

“That’s not what I mean,”  Derek growls out, wiping a large hand over his face. “I’m too old for you.”

“I don’t give a fuck about _age_ ,”  Stiles says incredulously.

Derek smiles sadly, pain evident in his gaze.  “I do.”  He backs away, like he wants to leave, and Stiles half wants him to, after making such a flimsy excuse.  If a sixteen year age difference was something that bothered people like him, his kind would never find love.

Stiles snorts, it isn’t the age difference Derek is protesting.  It appears Engel was completely wrong when he implied Derek was like him.  Stiles turns his back on Derek so he doesn’t have to see him cry.  

The tapping retreat of Derek’s shoes is deafening in the room, and when the door opens and shuts, the following silence that settles is lonely and ugly.

Stiles picks up a wrench.  His magic burns through his veins as he throws it in anger and frustration.  Anger that Derek would lie to him like that, frustration that he was too cowardly to tell him straight that he doesn’t want Stiles.  Instead, he would make up excuses.  

It makes Stiles think thoughts about himself that he hasn’t believed in years.  

Stiles is a _man_ , a gangly, disgusting invert, how could perfect, swave Derek Hale ever want someone like him?  

His magic makes the wrench fly a mile, burying itself into the plaster on the other side of the room.

What was it that the first man he slept with told him?  

Stiles had been sitting on the edge of a hotel room bed, rolling up his socks, sweat still cooling on his skin.  The things he had learned running through his head, making his stomach feel hot, his cock stir bravely.  Danny had risen, gloriously nude, and wrapped his arms around Stiles, whispering in his ear.

_Be careful.  Be careful not to get caught.  Keep your ears peeled for news of raids.  If a joint is raided, don’t go back for at least a year.  Be careful not to flaunt yourself in public—never hold your lover’s hand, never kiss him.  But most importantly, be careful not to fall in love with a man you shouldn’t.  That’s the quickest path to ruin._

Stiles screams and throws another wrench, cursing himself and the feelings he wishes he didn’t have for Derek Hale.

***

It’s nearing midnight, the moon at its height, and Derek is still in his office.  The fireplace casts a warm glow over the whole room as Derek sits by it in an armchair, a tumbler of firewhiskey in his hand.  He has a report sitting on his desk that he cannot bring himself to focus on, even when it only requires a simple look over and a signature.

He takes a sip of the firewhiskey, wishing it would help warm him while the fire cannot, but it does nothing.  He’s too tired, too angry at himself for doing that to Stiles, for disappointing him so.

His door opens and Erica steps into his office, her golden hair glowing in the firelight.  There are lines around her mouth and under her eyes—when did they both get so old?  It feels like only yesterday they were two cocky young aurors disobeying orders and dueling dark wizards.  

“You shouldn’t drink so much, you’ll kill your liver,”  Erica nods her head to the nearly empty firewhiskey bottle.

Derek drains his glass and reaches for the bottle.  “At this point, that might be a mercy.”  Just before he’s about to pour himself another glass, the bottle flies out of his reach, landing on his desk.

She tilts her head to the side.  “What’s got you so maudlin?”  She waves her finger and the second armchair drags itself across the room.  She sits across from him.  “Derek?”

Derek places the glass against his face, shivering at the chill.  “Stiles kissed me.”

Erica furrows her brows.  “I don’t see why that would turn you into this…”

“Erica, you know why.”

“...You’re in love with him, it’s plain for everyone who cares about you to see.”

Derek puts the glass down.  “That doesn’t matter, I cannot love him.”

“It’s not just the age difference, is it?”  Erica asks delicately.

Derek shakes his head.  “I’m practically his teacher.  I am his teacher.  He’s dependant on me to introduce him to magic, doing anything else with him would be taking advantage of my authority over him.  If I was a professor at Ilvermorny thinking about one of his students like this, it would be the opposite of acceptable.”

“But you’re not at Ilvermorny, and he’s not a child, Derek.  What is he, twenty?”

“Twenty-one, he just had his birthday last month.”  Derek had given him the pocket watch he had caught Stiles eyeing the day they went to buy him a wand.  Stiles had smiled so gorgeously, Derek could barely stand to look at him.

“Exactly.  He’s a man grown, he can make his own decisions, and you definitely aren’t pressuring him into anything.”

Derek rubs a finger over his temple, feeling an approaching headache.  He wishes he had a bowl of Stiles’ matzo ball soup to make him feel better, but he doesn’t even know if Stiles wants to see him, let alone cook for him.

Erica continues, “A large age difference is not a big deal for queer folk in the no-maj world.  While you think it’s wrong, it probably doesn’t feel that way for Stiles.  It’s difficult for queer no-majs to find partners with the constant threat of being discovered hanging over their heads.  If they love someone, and someone loves them back, a sixteen year age difference must be peanuts in comparison.”  She reaches over and places a hand over Derek’s.  “If your rejection of him was only because of your difference in age and position, Stiles must see it differently.  He probably thinks you just don’t want him, and are using age as an excuse.”

Derek frowns, “I do want him.  I do love him.”

“Then tell him you cannot get over the age difference, make it abundantly clear.  If you love him, that’s the least you can do.”

Derek sighs, looking down at his shoes.  He’s starting to wonder if he’s also using the age difference as an excuse.  He hasn’t felt this way about someone in years.  Maybe he’s just afraid of ruining it, of breaking both their hearts, of ruining their relationship irreparably.  But then again, isn’t that what he’s already doing?

“I think you’re an idiot for not kissing him back, Derek Hale, but in the end, that’s your decision.”

Derek snorts.  “Thanks, Erica.”

She grins.  “Anytime.”

***

Stiles is in his living room practicing his spell work, and for the first time since he met the man, Derek wishes he was somewhere else.  

He sits at his dining room table doing his paperwork, unable to bear being in the same room as him.  He hears Stiles practicing a few jinxes on a dummy Derek set up months ago, but he resolutely tries to ignore him, diving into his work.

He’s working on a case regarding the smuggling of unicorns into Canada.  Usually this would be a job for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, but because cross border smuggling is involved, Derek is in charge of putting together a task force comprised of aurors from both departments.

“Hey.”  Derek looks up.  Stiles stands with one foot in the kitchen and one out, holding a bag of takeout in hand.  “I picked up dinner.”

Derek glances out the kitchen window, the sun setting in the distance.  He didn’t even notice the hours going by.  He pushes his papers out of the way, making room for Stiles.

Stiles looks startled.  “You don’t have to, I can eat in the living room.”

“Nonsense,”  Derek says, quirking a finger, sending the papers flying onto a neat stack on the counter.

“I won’t make a mess,”  Stiles says, still looking like he wants to bolt.

“Sit.”  Derek gestures to the chair across from him.  The table is small, but Derek figures dinner might be a good time to speak with Stiles.

Stiles does, and begins pulling the food out of the bag, there’s potato kugel, roast beef, and borscht, dishes Derek has developed a taste for, ever since Stiles introduced him to them.

Derek makes plates fly out of the cupboards, along with cutlery, and together they set the table in complete silence.  They eat in the same amount of silence.  

He’s slowly chewing his roast beef when he notices the book Stiles has placed on the floor by his feet.  He must have bought it at the nearby used bookstore when he went out to pick up the food.  He’s never seen it in the Stilinski household before, and Derek would know—Mr. Stilinski loves it when he drops by to chat and borrow a book or two.  The authors may be no-maj, but the stories they have to tell are interesting regardless.

“ _Salome_ ,”  Derek reads absentmindedly, blushing when he realizes he read it out loud.  Stiles quirks a brow at him, but reaches down for the book, handing it over to Derek.  

“It’s a play by Oscar Wilde,”  Stiles says.  “I’ve been wanting a copy forever, but it’s difficult to find the English translation.”

Derek cracks open the book, flipping to the dedication page which featured an illustration of a naked figure with horns and breasts, yet male genitalia.  A demonic angel kneels at the figure’s feet.  Derek raises his brows—it’s explicit and exactly what he would expect of Oscar Wilde.  

Over the last few months, Derek’s read every single book of his that the Stilinski’s own, coming to appreciate the man’s prose and wit.  He understands why Stiles loves his work so much.

“Translated by Lord Alfred Douglas,”  Derek reads, and snorts.    

“What’s so funny?”  Stiles asks, his expression unimpressed.

“I was unaware that Alfred Douglas was competent enough in French to translate Wilde’s works,”  he says, flipping through the pages, noticing that the translation is exceptionally good.

Stiles shakes his head.  “He wasn’t, he tried, but failed terribly.  Wilde did the translating, but credited Douglas anyway.”

Derek hums.  “That seems unfair.”

“Wilde loved him, he would have given him the world if only he asked.”  Derek looks up from the book, to find Stiles staring at him with something like longing.  “There was a sixteen year age difference between them, you know.”

“But he did ask, didn’t he?”  Derek says, ignoring Stiles’ addendum.  He already knows the story of Wilde and Douglas, having read it in a biography he found on the Stilinski’s shelves.  It was a doomed love from the start—not only because of the society that persecuted them.  “He ruined Wilde.”

“They were in love,”  Stiles defends, and Derek wants to shake him in frustration.

“Douglas was spoiled and reckless, he used Wilde for his money and was selfish for his attention,”  Derek spits.

Stiles looks at him with heartbreak in his eyes, and Derek is startled to see a tear trail down his cheeks.  “Is that what you think of me?”  Another tear follows and soon Stiles is crying like Derek’s broken him.

Derek drops the book and quickly reaches across the table to take Stiles’ hand, but he dodges him, and his fingers meet nothing but air.  “That was not my intention at all.  I’m simply saying they were ill-suited for each other.  It isn’t a metaphor for us.”  

“But it is, Derek, if not, why bring it up?  You think I want to ruin you, to steal all your money and imprison you?”  Stiles laughs wetly.  “You don’t want me, Derek, and I am capable of taking no for an answer.”

“Stiles, please,”  Derek begs, “I do want you, but I cannot be with you.”

Stiles blinks at him, surprised.  “But why?  I don’t understand, make me understand, Derek.”

“Sixteen years.  There was a sixteen year difference between them, and it ruined them.  There are sixteen years between you and me, Stiles,”  Derek repeats.

Stiles starts shaking his head.  Dashing away his tears, he gets up from the table, his dinner unfinished.  He picks up the copy of _Salome_ , and refuses to look at Derek as he says,   “They were not perfect for each other, but it wasn’t their age that tore them apart, it was Douglas’ father and the society they lived in—a society that was unkind and wanted to hurt them.”

Derek remembers what Erica told him about queer no-majs.  How age means nearly nothing to them.  He thinks about Oscar Wilde and Alfred Douglas, and how their difference in age and experience was the least of their problems.  He thinks about Stiles, and how Derek will never regret anything as much as he will regret letting him walk out his door.

He thinks about Stiles, and lunges across the table.  

He grabs Stiles by the front of his shirt and presses their faces together in a violent, powerful kiss.  Instantly, Stiles kisses him back, and Derek feels something slide into place.  Stiles winds his arms around Derek’s neck as he steps around the table, bringing them closer than ever.

Derek vaguely hears the book thud on the floor when Stiles drops it.  He’s too full of Stiles, desire and passion making his lips move.  He feels like he’s on fire, like the world could burn to pieces around him, but he wouldn’t care because Stiles is here, and everything will always work out so long as Stiles always stays here.

Derek slides his hands down Stiles’ torso, he grips his hips, trying to pull his shirt out of his pants, but his suspenders are in the way.  He pushes Stiles back, until he’s pressed against the counter, then lifts his hands and slides his suspenders down his arms.  He successfully untucks Stiles’ shirt, and sucks his lower lip into his mouth, before sliding his hands up, onto the warm skin of Stiles’ belly.

He swallows the delicious gasp Stiles makes, pushing him harder against the counter, until it likely digs into his back.  

There’s desperation in the way Stiles moves against him, and Derek thinks he can taste the salty tang of tears on his tongue.

Derek pulls back, but Stiles chases him.  

He places a hand on Stiles’ cheek, stopping him.  Derek looks at him, watches him open his felix felicis eyes, wet with tears.  Derek swipes a thumb under them, wiping away the moisture.

Stiles wraps his arms around Derek’s waist.  He’s slightly taller than Derek.  Stiles tucks his head onto the cradle of his neck, hiding his face.  “We’re not them,”  Stiles mutters into his skin.

Derek kisses the top of his head.  Looking down at the man in his arms, Derek thinks they might be a _little_ bit like Wilde and Douglas.  After all, Derek would gladly let himself go to ruin for Stiles—for this man he loves so much it hurts.

***

“Do you remember the day we met?”  Derek asks.  They’re sitting in the living room together on the couch.  Stiles has his arms wrapped around Derek, and they’re so close, he’s practically sitting in his lap.

Stiles smiles, remembering the day like it was yesterday.  He doubts Derek remembers it, he’s never given any indication that he recalls winking at Stiles when he was little and crossing the street with his mother.  He wonders if bringing it up would only scare Derek away.  He’s already skittish enough.

“I remember.”

“You’re immune to obliviation,”  Derek remarks, running a finger along the outside of Stiles’ ear.

“I guess I am.”

“You’re immune to obliviation, you can apparate intercontinentally, you can raise shields without even trying,”  Derek tugs at Stiles’ ear, “Is there anything you cannot do?”

“I cannot cast a levitation charm to save my life,”  Stiles says seriously.  Everytime he tries, the object he wants to levitate either explodes or rolls off whatever surface it was on.

Derek chuckles, fingers now drawing circles onto the back of his neck,  It’s slowly driving Stiles to distraction.  “Have you tried it without a wand?”

Stiles shakes his head.

“Try it, then.”  Derek points to a pen lying on the coffee table.  “Imagine the pen floating, picture it clearly in your mind.”

Stiles looks at the pen, narrowing his eyes.  He thinks about it lifting from the table, floating in the air, just bobbing up and down.

Black ink seeps from the pen onto the table below.  Stiles sighs.  Derek lifts his wand and the ink disappears.

“It’s okay,”  He presses a kiss to Stiles’ temple, “You’ll get it eventually.”

“It’s like I’m learning backwards,”  Stiles says, “First apparition, then levitation charms.”

“It’s charming,”  Derek assures.

“No, it isn’t,”  Stiles says sadly, “Everyone at MACUSA thinks I’m a freak.”

“Not everyone…”  Derek trails off.

“Thanks, Derek, that’s extremely helpful.”  Stiles pauses.  “If I make another mistake, like apparating across borders again, you might be brought up on probation.”

“Yes, I am aware.”  Derek says nonchalantly.

“Me wanting to be with you, isn’t nearly as destructive for your career as my inability to do simple magic.  And, as far as I remember, you’re the one who idiotically offered to teach me.”   

Derek is speechless.  He shakes his head, disbelievingly.  ”I can’t believe you just called me an idiot.”

Stiles quirks a brow.  “Derek, don't be obtuse, you must have know it was a bad career move to take me under your wing, us being together isn’t even at that level of stupidity.”

“I’m not arguing with you, Stiles, I know.”

“Good.”  Stiles nods his head once.  “Why’d you do it?  Why’d you offer to teach me?”

Derek traces the moles on his neck with a pinky.  “I was the right thing to do.”

“I don’t believe that that’s the only reason.”  

Derek bends closer and kisses his neck, openmouthed, lips hot and tongue wet.  Stiles’ breath catches in his throat.  “You’re right, it wasn’t,”  Derek says, but he doesn’t elaborate.  He leans back to look at Stiles, but Stiles makes a soft sound and is soon chasing after him, pulling him closer.

They kiss again.  Derek wraps an arm around his waist, strong and steady, as Stiles runs his fingers along Derek’s neck as they kiss.

“I thought you were beautiful the moment I first saw you,”  Stiles whispers against his lips.  He doesn’t mention exactly when that was, but he needed to say it anyway.  

Derek rests his forehead against Stiles, his eyes are closed and his brow furrowed.  Stiles feels helpless, and his heart stutters in his chest when Derek rubs their noses together affectionately.

“I felt the same.”

Derek kisses him, deeply, there’s more want behind it, more force.  Stiles opens his mouth and Derek licks inside.  The passion makes Stiles flush, holding Derek closer.  He falls back against the couch.  

Derek’s hand moves against Stiles’ chest, he rubs a nipple through his shirt, and Stiles jumps.  Derek grins.

“Cocky,”  Stiles says as Derek bends over him, balanced on his hands and knees.

Derek hums, kissing Stiles’ ear, then trailing his lips down his neck.  Stiles wants to throw him off, to hear him gasp deliciously.  

Stiles slides his hand down between them, palming Derek through his pants.

“Stiles!”  Derek cries out, thrusting into Stiles’ hand as he keeps the movement of his hand sure, but light.  He’s teasing him, and Derek shows his displeasure by nipping at Stiles’ jaw.  

Stiles pulls his hand back, and Derek chases him, but Stiles stops him with a hand on his chest.  He looks into his eyes and asks, “Do you want my hand, or my mouth?”

“Merlin’s beard Stiles, you’re going to kill me.”  Derek dips his head, forehead resting on Stiles’ clavicle.  Stiles takes the opportunity to comb his fingers through Derek’s hair, enjoying the mess he makes out of it.  Smiling, delighted, when he removes his fingers and Derek’s enchanted pomade rights it all again.  He wants to do this to Derek in the morning when he’s got nothing in his hair, so it stays a mess.  Stiles would take great pleasure in that.  

“I didn’t hear an answer,”  Stiles sing-songs, biting his bottom lip in excitement.  He already knows what he wants, he just wants Derek to want it too.

Derek mumbles an answer into his neck.

Stiles grins.  He pushes Derek off him, until he kneels in between Stiles’ spread legs.  Stiles reaches for his belt with one hand, the other grips Derek’s thigh.  Studying Derek’s face, he tugs open the buckle, unsnapping the buttons—all with one hand.  

Derek’s eyes grow dark at the show of skill and experience.  He’s done this quite a few times, Derek doesn’t need to worry that he has more experience than Stiles in this department.  When it comes to activities in the bedroom, Stiles knows his way around.

He reaches into Derek’s pants, feels the coarseness of hair, then the silken warmth of skin.  Stiles knows he’s reached his destination when Derek’s eyelids flutter and his mouth goes slack.  Stiles _strokes_ , and Derek nearly falls on him.

Stiles chuckles.  He pushes Derek where he wants him, then slides to the floor on his knees.  Derek looks at him through heavily lidded eyes, hands clenched at his side, his legs spread obscenely.  Stiles licks his lips.  

Derek still wears all his clothes, and the thought that he gets to do this while Derek looks as dashing—as proper—as ever makes heat build in Stiles’ belly.  

His own cock jumps in the confines of his pants, but he ignores it and instead runs both palms of his hands down the thick muscles of Derek's thighs, feeling him squirm under the attention.

A hand tangles in his hair, curling around into the shape of his skull.

“You can pull,”  Stiles says, “I like it.”

Derek thumps his head on the back of the couch, the moment Stiles’ lips close around the tip.  He licks, enjoying the weight and feel of Derek in his mouth.  Stiles loves sucking cock.  He thinks it might be his favourite thing to do in the bedroom.  He loves watching his lover fall apart in his mouth, the power he can hold over them, the control.

Stiles loves being on his knees, and he loves watching Derek fall to pieces above him.

Derek’s face is bright red, mouth open and panting.  One of his hands is tangled in Stiles’ hair, pulling almost painfully, the other is pressed against his forehead, as if he cannot believe this is happening to him.  And the way he's looking at Stiles, like he's everything, makes his pulse race like never before.

Stiles closes his mouth over him, swirling his tongue as he goes down, and down, and down some more, slowing taking Derek until the tip of his cock nudges against the back of his throat.  Stiles swallows and Derek hisses like he’s in pain.  He knows what Derek’s feeling.  The first time a man swallowed around him, he’d come straight away, an apology on his lips.

He has to give it to Derek, he’s holding on quite valiantly.

“Your mouth, Stiles, your damned mouth.”  

Stiles hums, feeling spit dribble down his chin.  He starts moving up and down, swallowing each time Derek’s cock hits his throat.  He loves this, his hands on Derek’s thighs, and his mouth on his cock.  His jaw might be tiring, but fire burns in Derek’s eyes, and Stiles never wants to stop.

“Stiles!”  Derek comes with a roar, his hands tightening in Stiles’ hair in warning.  Stiles simply swallows him down, feeling heat running down his throat.  Derek’s come.

Stiles pulls off.  His lips must be red and full, and he feels a mess.  He must look like one too, because Derek tugs him up off the floor and settles him into his lap.  Stiles sits on his thighs, legs spread on either side of them, watching as Derek hurriedly tucks himself away.

Derek presses a lingering kiss to his lips, then pulls Stiles out of his pants, proceeding to pull him off.  Jacking him, quick and dirty.  He watches Stiles, staring into his eyes, before grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him into another kiss.  He knows Derek can taste himself on Stiles’ tongue because his grip tightens and Stiles is spilling in between them, coming with a startling gasp, like the feeling was shocked out of him.

Derek wraps an arm around him, and his hand moves around the couch, searching.  He pulls out his wand from a pile of pillows, then whispers a cleaning spell over Stiles’ stomach.  The pearlescent come disappears like it wasn’t even there to begin with.

Stiles stays sitting on Derek’s lap, arms draped over his shoulders.  Derek smiles at him, nudging his nose under Stiles’ jaw.  He loves how affectionate Derek is after he’s just come.

“That was amazing,”  Derek sighs.

Stiles sits up straight, proud that Derek liked it.  “I'm glad you thought so.”  He grins mischievously.  “I know some more tricks if you want me to blow your mind again?”

Derek groans, head falling back, exposing the long line of his throat to Stiles.  He wants to bite it.  “Maybe in a few hours, I'm not as young as I once was.”

“Or, I could visit you in your office tomorrow?”  Stiles suggests with a wink.

Derek lets out a surprising moan.  It appears he likes the idea.  “I knew it, you are trying to get me fired.”

***

Derek sips from a cup of tea as he turns a page of an interesting book. It's by Virginia Woolf, a no-maj author, and comments on the lives and social structure of no-majs, post-war.  He thinks Erica might enjoy it, she's always been interested in no-maj society—more than she should be at least.

Stiles sits across from him, also absorbed in a book.

They're sitting in the Stilinski living room.  It's Derek's day off and he wanted to spend it with Stiles.  Usually he sits at home finishing up paperwork, but he figures he can always catch up to that some other day.

Derek looks up from his book to catch Stiles smiling lightly at him over his own.  He has a finger waving in the air, as if he's conducting some unheard orchestra, but Derek knows he's just practicing his wand movements.

The warm afternoon sun shines in through the window as dust motes drift through the air.  He sends a slow grin in Stiles direction, knowing he likes Derek's smiles so much.  

Derek feels something nudge against his head.  Expecting Mr. Stilinski with a promised muffin, he looks up, only to see a book floating in the air, bumping every so often against his head.

Stiles looks flabbergasted, but Derek feels nothing but pride for the man he loves so much.  He finally managed a successful levitation charm.

A crash sounds from the doorway, and Derek whirls around to see Mr. Stilinski bent on the floor, hunched over a tipped tray of muffins, cleaning it up as best as he can, muttering under his breath

The book thuds as it lands on the carpet.

Derek rubs a hand over his forehead.  Well, they can at least say they tried to keep magic a secret from Mr. Stilinski, at least for a little while.

Derek sighs and pulls out his wand, waving it over the mess.  The tray fixes itself and floats over to the small table beside the chairs, all the while Mr. Stilinski stares on in wide-eyed wonder.

He sways a bit as he stands up, then throws a thumb over his shoulder.  “If you would excuse me, boys, I think I need to go lie down.”  He half stumbles out of the room.

Stiles looks at him, a question in his eye, but Derek shakes his head.  Stiles smiles brilliantly.  Mr. Stilinski can keep his memories, screw that it's illegal, screw what MACUSA would do if they found out.

Stiles jumps to his feet, just about to run after his father in order to give him what Derek presumes is a crash course in the workings of the magical world.  He stops at the last moment and leans over the table.  Grabbing Derek by the tie, he pulls him into an open mouthed, full kiss that nearly has Derek's eyes rolling back in his skull.  They break apart and Stiles presses a gentler, sweeter kiss to his cheek.

He runs out of the room, and Derek places a hand over his rapidly reddening cheek.  

Derek sighs, scrubbing a hand across his brow.  Addressing the empty room, he says, “He’s going to be hell on my career, I just know it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment, tell me what you think!


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